


Absolution

by sunnyeclipses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cooking, Cottagecore, Dark Harry, Depression, Drugging, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Gaslighting, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Linear Narrative, Overdosing, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Rough Sex, Suicide Attempt, Way too much gardening for a fic like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyeclipses/pseuds/sunnyeclipses
Summary: At the mercy of his failing marriage, Harry only meant to use the potion once — to get Draco to listen. It’s not his fault that it works so well and that Draco’s just so easy to control.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 96
Kudos: 164
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Spoiler note about the non-con located at the endnotes of Chapter 1. 
> 
> Hi there! If you're considering reading my fic, (which I hope you do!!), make sure to check the tags beforehand. While I can guarantee you the happiest ending that a fic like this can get, it's still a miserable ride there so buckle in tight.
> 
> Thank you so much to the absolutely phenomenal mods for all of their hard work as well!
> 
> Blue and Lily: My amazing friends, cheerleaders, and so much more! Thank you for letting me haunt your DM's and brainstorm with you both about all the possible ideas and endings I dreamt up. This fic would be nothing without you both, and I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> Toluene: Thank you for a final pair of eyes on this monster. I am so appreciative of your comments and edits! 
> 
> And lastly (but certainly not least) to Meghan: You are, and forever will be, the beta to end all betas. You worked tirelessly at this fic with me from the beginning, and I'll endlessly be grateful. Thank you for staying up with me through the wee hours of the morning and working out the kinks of this piece. I wouldn't have even been able to complete it if it weren't for you. Thank you for being an incredible beta, but more importantly, the kindest and most amazing friend <3.

**Present**

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said firmly, digging his heels into the springy ground of the vegetable garden.

His heart quickened in his chest. His eyes fell to his hands, and then to the swollen red peppers at his feet. 

The year before, Draco had suggested they plant them. Naturally, the stone fruit trees that littered their garden were unusually helpful, and their annual yield was welcomed by many. The apricots were especially exquisite, and one year, to the pleasure of their friends and family, they had gifted them for Christmas.

Harry and Draco had warded the garden together, ensuring that no matter the season, fruit borne from their trees was perfect. 

Harry remembered the glow, the warmth in his chest when eating something his husband had baked for him from a tree they had grown together in their first home. There was something homely about it, something pure and chaste. When Harry had planted the peppers, at Draco’s request, their domestic bliss fractured. 

Neither of them cared for red peppers at all, and Draco suddenly preferred yellow. 

“ _Vegetables die quickly and often,_ ” Draco would always say, “ _and they are not worth the trouble._ ” 

“Harry, you do,” Draco said so delicately, as if Harry was a china cup teetering at the edge of a dinner table. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

Harry toyed with his ring, moving it from one finger to the next. It was a nervous habit he’d picked up from Hermione, who could never seem to keep her hands still anymore. She was always giddy with excitement. Her and Ron both were. Her tic was fueled by joy and cheer; Harry’s was cold and blue. 

“This is ridiculous.” Harry felt his voice go high and nasally. It always did when he was uncomfortable. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make you some tea. You can tell me about your day at work —” 

“Stop it, Harry.” Draco’s eyes were watery and full. “I’ve already packed my things.” 

Harry shook his head stubbornly, feeling heat rise through to his cheeks. “No, you haven’t. We need to have some tea, and we can settle everything. Please just come inside with me. Don’t you want tea?” 

He was shaking as he searched for Draco’s wrist, but his fingers closed around open air. Draco’s hands clasped together behind his back, as if he was afraid Harry would touch him at all. His face bore every sign of regret, and Harry wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. 

“I never want your tea again, Harry,” Draco whispered, and nervously sidestepped another attempt at physical contact. “I-I’m going to go. Please, _please_ don’t contact me. I don’t want to hear from you.” 

Draco’s eyes were not cold, like Harry had expected. He knew this day would come, but somehow imagined it as something very different from what it was. He visualised fiendfyre consuming their house from the inside out as Draco shot him with stinging hexes and heartless words. A visceral reaction was more typical of his husband, but Harry supposed the potion had altered him permanently in some ways. He never thought to make note of that when he first tried it. 

Their garden was so quiet. Like the world was ending, but no one had taken notice. 

For a moment, Harry stared down at the hard lines of Draco’s dress shoes. He admired the soft curve of the silver buckle, a small spot of wet mud on the tip. Harry blinked and they were gone. Draco’s wedding band, abandoned on the mulch.

–––

**Three Years Earlier**

It was half-past four in the morning when the sound of an alarm shook Harry from sleep. His eyes opened but were unable to make out anything in particular. Indistinct shapes characterised the bedroom. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, allowing his fingers to search haphazardly for the clink of familiar wires knocking into a cup of water. When located, he eased them on. 

The world coalesced around him. 

Draco, dozing at his side, was breathing softly into a pillow. He’d thrown the comforter from his upper body, which was uncharacteristic of him. It was rare that, even in the throes of sleep, he would let himself lie so visible like that. It was why he locked the door when he bathed. It was why whenever they were naked, it was always in the dark. Always, _always_ in the dark. 

Harry inclined his head at the figure next to him, adjusting the summer sheets so that they, at least, covered him to his shoulders. Draco would wake up in a better mood because of it. 

Harry would take what he could get at this point. 

He stepped off from the bed, letting his bare feet meet the cold hardwood. Draco had left the window curtains open, again, and Harry felt a familiar tug of irritation pull at his stomach. A small, mean part of him hoped that the sunlight would wake him unpleasantly in the morning. It was pink outside still, but amber rays would stream through the glass eventually. 

Their cottage was cosy, unlike any home Harry had been in before. He loved it to bits, and was certain Draco had too when they signed the papers a few years back. Harry had insisted they live just outside London, while Draco was keen on a flat in the heart of the city. But it was their first year of marriage, and they were still so young. 

Harry always wondered if, in the early days, Draco only agreed with him because he owed him his life. 

Harry walked out of the room, making sure to avoid the floorboards to the left of the door, which protested loudly whenever they were stepped on. He had quite liked the personality of their magical house, and something had reminded him distinctly of the Burrow. But now, not so much. 

When they had first moved in, Draco had set up a Muggle wireless radio, and Harry had been more than surprised. They’d danced to music in their kitchen while making breakfast each morning, and Draco would casually flip pancakes with just a flick of his wand. Harry had still not mastered such precise movement. 

Their kitchen now was bleak and a little dusty. Usually they ate dinner separately, both at work. Harry never really had to. The Aurors typically required a hard stop on the work day at six in the evening, but he found eating takeout at his desk less depressing than a home-cooked meal at an empty table. 

Cheerless rays of light shone through French doors out to the garden, and Harry opened them instinctively. The morning was still blanketed by a biting cold, but it would burn off by midday according to the weather report. 

Today was Draco’s twenty-fifth birthday. 

Last year, this day was one of Harry’s favourites of the year. He and Ginny had planned an elaborate dinner at The Horseshoe, a trendy restaurant tucked away in one corner of Diagon Alley. It was classy in a way that Draco appreciated, but quiet enough that the group was left unbothered by other diners. Afterward they apparated to Ginny’s, where she hosted them for drinks and cake. The night was filled with love and champagne, and Harry would have lived in that moment forever if he could. 

Instead, this year, Harry had planned a surprise birthday that no one really wanted to attend. Of course, none of his friends would ever say that to his face. But it was clear something was going horribly wrong in their household, and not even Ron or Hermione wanted to get caught in the middle of it. 

“Good morning,” a sleep-heavy voice said from the doorway. 

Harry glanced up from his fried eggs, sizzling away in the pan. “Happy birthday, Draco.” He smiled, but there was little warmth to it. “You’re up early.” 

“Yeah, the light woke me.” Draco grimaced, taking a seat at the table and folding open the Sunday morning paper that Lyra had brought inside. She was a small tawny owl, and there was nothing astoundingly special about her. But Draco had always cared for her, and stroked at her feathers affectionately as she perched on the chair next to him. 

Harry knew things were really fucked up when he was jealous of an owl. 

He occupied the seat across from Draco, sliding a plate of eggs and toast across the table. Draco hummed a thank you in response as he picked at breakfast half-heartedly and looked anywhere but Harry himself. 

“I had some ideas for today, actually —”

“I have to go into the office. There’s been an enquiry into the department, and damn Goldstein released a few memos to some of our bigger clients when I _told_ him to wait. It’s a right mess. The goblins are up in arms, and I have to head over to prevent any further uprising.” Draco shrugged, still paging through the first few articles of the _Prophet_. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for much else today. Maybe dinner if you really want?” 

“But it’s your birthday,” Harry said weakly, swallowing a bite of toast like medicine. “I had plans.” 

“Harry, it’s not like I _want_ to spend my twenty-fifth playing mediator to goblins all day,” Draco snapped, pushing his plate away. “You don’t understand how vital my position is, how important it is that I —” 

“I understand,” Harry cut him off, taking their unfinished plates to the sink as Draco gaped at him. “Just make yourself available tonight. Ginny and I planned a celebration, and if you let her down, she’ll be disappointed.” 

So much for a surprise party. 

Harry left the room feeling more moody than when he had entered it. 

Draco always had to work; it had become increasingly clear as he climbed the ranks of Gringotts that his free time was painfully limited at best. But it was the weekend, and Harry had put effort into the party. 

He dropped his pyjamas to the floor, leaving them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Draco would yell at him for that later, but Harry barely had the care to take them to the basket and avoid a fight anyway. He busied himself getting ready for the day after a quick shower, dressing in a pair of pressed dark jeans and a white t-shirt. He rarely reached for robes anymore, especially during the summer.

Lyra was perched outside their windowsill, and Harry opened it slightly to let her in. She sat contentedly on the ledge, but her eyes swivelled up and down Harry’s body as though she were assessing his poor choice of clothing. He assumed, since Lyra was even bothering with him at all, that Draco had already left for work. He must have dressed in the guest bedroom then. 

Harry emerged from the cottage, admiring the garden cosmos that peppered their front lawn. They were pink, insignificant little things, but Harry had a soft spot for flowers nonetheless. He had wanted to grow more after planting them, but Draco said they looked cheap and messy. Of course, Harry disagreed and planted more anyway. If everything went according to plan, they’d have sunflowers in a few weeks. 

After passing the picket gate, Harry Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron and was soon immersed in the bustle of Diagon Alley. 

Ginny met him at Ollivander's. 

“Harry!” Ginny was breathless, waving enthusiastically at him from across the way. 

“Ginny, we really shouldn’t have left this all to the last minute.” Harry sighed, eyeing the crowds around them distastefully. 

“You say that every year, love, and yet here we are.” She teased, but wrapped him up in a bear hug. Harry leaned into it, comforted by any and every human touch. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in so long. Draco doesn’t tell me much about you anymore.” 

Harry shrugged, unsurprised. “I’m doing well. Things have been slow at the Ministry. Ron was assigned a huge case a few weeks ago which I was consulting on. But it seems like he closed it fairly quickly.” Harry actively worked to quell the bitterness in his tone.

“Oh, I know work is fine.” Ginny smiled, but it was pitiful, and Harry found himself wanting to turn away from it. “How are _you_?” 

“Truthfully, I’ve been better,” he admitted, not necessarily ready to. 

Ginny didn’t feign surprise and didn’t offer a response, for which Harry was grateful. He knew how obvious the rift in their relationship was to other people. Ginny and Draco had been best friends for years, especially after so much time working together, and Harry felt like he somehow lost her in the chaos of everything.

They began walking, as the decorations for the party were first on the list. Ginny held a small piece of parchment in her hands so she wouldn’t forget, but Harry had not bothered to come prepared at all. 

He hardly cared what the party was like; Draco would hate it nonetheless. 

“Oh, shoot!” Ginny exclaimed, checking her wristwatch frantically. “We were supposed to pick up the cake first. Do you mind going in and grabbing it while I get decorations? It’s under my name. I don’t have much time before I have to head back to Pansy.” 

Harry nodded his assent and watched as Ginny was swallowed back into the crowds of the Alley. He looked down at the note she put in his hand and set off to the bakery.

It was an inviting shop from the outside, with tiered cakes and various pastries displayed tastefully under preservation charms (one certain red velvet cupcake made Harry’s mouth water at the sight of it). The inside was less so. Madam Odessa sat behind a high countertop, scribbling out something onto a long piece of parchment. She barely startled as the bell rang and Harry made his presence known in the small space.

“I’m here to pick up a cake?” Harry said after a pause, his statement morphing unintentionally into a question. 

“You don’t sound so sure,” Madam Odessa mused, and the corner of her mouth turned up wryly. “Name?” 

“Erm, Ginny Weasley,” Harry said. 

“I hardly think that’s your name,” she said shrewdly, her expression unamused. “I asked a different question.” 

“Harry — that’s my name.” He found his palms growing uncomfortably sweaty. He wondered if the woman actually knew who he was but happened to be enjoying taking the piss. 

She didn’t seem like the type. 

“An average name to match an average face,” she murmured, heaving a large leather-bound book onto the countertop. She flipped through the book uninterestedly until it was open to a page near the back. Then she ran a long and manicured fingernail down the row of names before finally coming to a pause. Without a word, she disappeared somewhere into the back. 

Harry waited for minutes, before drawing his head up to where she finally emerged. From her seat at the countertop, she had looked like a tall woman, but Harry noticed she only made it to well below his shoulders. Somehow that made her more intimidating than before. 

The cake in her hands was simple and plain — cream frosting with a mint and vanilla sponge. Harry, in the past years, had always brought Draco a decadent chocolate for his birthday. He wondered if Ginny knew his husband better than he did. It didn’t make him angry, like the way Draco paid more attention to the damn owl, but it did incite a little sadness. 

Years ago, Harry would have argued that no one knew Draco like he did. These days, things were very different. 

He accepted the cake with one hand, fishing out a handful of Galleons with the other. He paid Madam Odessa, but she didn’t move away from him, only gazed through his eyes like she was trying to find something else within the green. 

“Mr Malfoy is your partner, I presume,” she noted, adjusting her cat-eyed frames so they sat lower on the bridge of her nose. 

“Er, yes, he’s my husband, yes,” Harry said, finding odd words coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

“Wish him a happy birthday from me, please. He deserves the world, you know.” She gave Harry a pointed look, and he felt small under her gaze. 

“I know,” Harry said, not bothering to ask her how she knew these things. He just wanted out of the shop, which seemed to be contracting in size by the second. “Thank you for the cake.” 

Harry turned on his heel before she could say any more and exited the bakery. He took in air through his lungs as if he’d been holding a breath since before he entered. Something about Madam Odessa had put him off. Even the red velvet cupcake was less enticing than before. 

A flash of movement across the street drew his eye to an inconspicuous shop, one that reminded him of another in a certain Knockturn Alley. It would be a while before he could duck out to the store again, and he wondered if Ginny would mind the wait. He held the cake firmly in its bag and Apparated to the apothecary. 

Harry had been taking Dreamless Sleep for a while. He was certainly not addicted and could probably stop if he ever chose to, but it was easier to fall asleep next to Draco when there was something actively forcing his body to do so. 

Harry wasn’t sure when everything had gotten so bad. 

He applied a quick glamour to his hair and face. He always made his nose just a tad longer and his hair a sandy yellow blond. No one paid much attention to him anyway, as patrons of Knockturn Alley valued discretion. Harry entered the store, and the floorboards squeaked beneath his trainers. A man who he had never seen before was adjusting a rack of potions in the corner. He nodded his head in acknowledgement to Harry, but left him to his own devices. 

Harry browsed the shelves for Dreamless Sleep. While it wasn’t an illegal substance yet, it was heavily controlled by the Ministry, and Knockturn Alley’s nameless apothecaries were some of the last places that carried potions of such caliber. Harry always found himself wanting to buy other, likely illegal, draughts from the store, just to see what they would do to him, but he always talked himself out of it, losing his nerve. 

He was collecting a few spherical vials of the purple substance when the shopkeeper approached him. 

“Sir.” The man cleared his throat from behind Harry, who startled at the sound. “We have something new today.” 

“Oh, er, I’m not really looking for anything else,” Harry started, but the man waved a hand noncommittally. 

“It’s very interesting, sir. Something I’ve never seen before in all my time here.” The shopkeeper drew up his frame to match Harry’s height, squinting his eyes at him in a familiar way. “Say, do I know you —” 

“Actually, I’d love to see the potion!” Harry announced, hoping the shopkeeper would turn his back and forget about his poorly glamoured features. 

It worked, and Harry felt his heart beat at a slower pace. The shopkeeper led him back behind the main aisles and into a small room in the back. It was windowless, like much of the place was, but smelled unpleasant and earthy, like it hadn't been cleaned in years. 

“This is a highly potent potion, sir. It is important that you do not share the details of where this was purchased or how you came into possession of it if ever questioned on the subject.” The man regarded Harry with a stern look. “Are we clear?” 

Harry swallowed slowly. “Crystal.” 

“This...” The man turned to reveal an unassuming pale blue potion in the palm of his hand. It was a small vial, and the liquid was translucent like water. “This is a suggestibility potion, sir.” 

“Like an Imperius Curse?” Harry raised his eyebrows, Auror instincts raising his hackles. If this was something off the black market, Harry had no business allowing this man to continue selling such a dangerous product. 

“No, no!” the shopkeeper said, knitting his brows together. “The user is never _completely_ controlled by the potion, of course. Strong wills and desires can overcome its effects. The person who takes it becomes more suggestible. Say, open-minded. Easier to deal with. However you want to put it.” 

Harry eyed the potion suspiciously before taking the vial in his hands and overturning the glass a few times. It looked harmless, like fresh water bubbling in a creek. 

“A few drops will do.” 

“I don’t think I want to purchase this.” Harry shook his head, reaching out to pass the vial back.

“No, sir, I insist you take it. No need to purchase the first time around. Give it a try. See what happens. There’s no harm at all in making the people around you more tolerable, eh?” The shopkeeper gazed at him hopefully. “Free of charge for you. If you like it, you can come to me for more.” 

Harry figured he’d never use it, but still tucked the vial safely into his bag. The shopkeeper was starting to squint at him funny again, so it would be best to make a quick exit. 

After purchasing his Dreamless Sleep, he Apparated back to Diagon Alley, outside of the bakery. Madam Odessa mildly glanced up at his appearance. She gave him a sharp look, tinged with distrust, and he wondered if she could somehow see through his disguise. Harry pushed the worry away instead. He walked away, subtly unglamouring his features as he went. There was no time to deal with trivialities such as irritable bakers. 

He spotted Ginny back by Ollivander’s, her arms full with shopping bags . 

“Took you long enough,” she teased, nudging at Harry’s shoulder. “Did Odessa give you trouble?” 

“That woman is something else.” Harry rolled his eyes, and took a few bags from Ginny. “She asked me my _name_.” 

“How shameful!” Ginny clutched at hypothetical pearls dramatically. “Someone dare ask the Boy Who Lived his name.” 

“Oh, shove off.” Harry groaned, but he laughed along with her. “What bothered me was she asked me even though she already knew. How pointless!” 

“She’s an interesting woman. Adores Draco, though. Every morning before work, she’s out front of her bakery with warm danishes for him.” 

So that was why Draco pushed his breakfast around disinterestedly whenever Harry made it. He could have at least said something to spare the trouble. 

“I have an hour. Fancy some lunch at the Leaky?” Ginny asked, readjusting bags of decorations on her hip. 

“Sure, but we better make it quick. I don’t know when Draco will be home, and I should get started on setting up,” Harry said, but they changed direction to the pub anyway. 

Harry’s stomach protested at the thought of any food at all. 

“He told me he’d be home at seven,” Ginny said, but failed to notice that Harry’s face fell. 

It stung that Draco wouldn’t tell him things like that. Of course, they were insignificant. In the larger picture of life, Draco slept in his bed every night; they made love frequently enough, like many married couples in their mid-twenties did; and they updated each other on big life events, like promotions, news, things that mattered. 

The exact time that Draco returned home from work each night didn’t _really_ matter in the grand scheme of things, though Harry was embarrassed to know that his friends knew more about his husband’s life than he did. Draco shared little and listened even less. 

They seated themselves at the communal table in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron, claiming one side while a family of four took the other. Once they ordered, Ginny asked the question Harry had been dreading the entire time they were together. 

“What’s going on with you and Draco?” 

“What do you mean?” Harry feigned innocence, but Ginny narrowed her eyes at him as if to say, _don’t try this with me, it won’t work_. 

“You know you can talk to me about anything, Harry,” she said gently, reaching her hand out to place it on his. “I’m Draco’s best friend, but I was yours first.” 

Harry knew that. He really did. But sometimes it didn’t matter who had something first. Preference always took precedence over that, and Harry knew that oftentimes Ginny preferred Draco over him. Their flying wit, inside jokes, and cunning personalities were things Harry knew he could never share with either of the two.

They ordered and ate, and the question passed as it usually did. 

Sometimes it seemed like Ginny asked out of politeness, or maybe because she knew she couldn’t get an answer out of Draco himself. Harry was sure that if he bothered to confide in her, he’d arrive back home to an even angrier husband than usual. 

When he Apparated back to the cottage, it was well into the afternoon. The day had grown warm and sticky, just as the weather report had predicted, and it was the slightest bit too hot outside for comfort. With cooling charms, they would have to make it work. 

Harry set the bag down on the countertop, lifting the cake out. As much as he hated to admit it, it smelled wonderful — just the right amount of mint. Enchanted in icing were the words _Happy Birthday Draco_ with small fondant serpents moving about the surface. Draco would, no doubt, find it a little tacky. But if he knew it was Ginny’s doing, he wouldn’t dare complain. 

Harry cast a quick preservation charm over the cake to keep it as fresh as possible before deciding it was time to tackle the garden. 

It was actually quite easy.

Harry strung up twinkling fairy lights that cozied up the space and cleared away stray leaves and fallen fruit to make room for round tables with wicker chairs. He arranged a food and refreshments table on one side and an area for music on the other. The whole space seemed quaint, like a perfect summer party. Harry knew Draco would somehow manage to detest it all anyway. 

In the kitchen, Harry lost himself in the chopping of various fruits they had grown in the garden that year. Summer was the ideal time for their peaches and plums, and Harry heaped the sliced stone fruits into glass bowls with cream on the side. 

He barely noticed when Draco walked up behind him and rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Hi,” Draco said, kissing the fabric of Harry’s shirt gently. He found himself startled by the unfamiliar intimacy of touch. 

“You’re home early.” 

“You’re cutting fruit.” 

“That I am.” Harry felt an unconscious warmth rise in his chest, even at the little physical contact Draco offered. 

“You should put some apples in. The trees are doing well this year.” Draco kissed at the skin of his neck and up to Harry’s earlobe, which he bit lightly. 

So this was about sex. Harry figured he might as well give it to him; it was his birthday after all. 

Harry dropped the knife against the cutting board, turning to face Draco instead. He was promptly pushed against the cabinet as Draco bit and sucked at his neck. Any enjoyment Harry had was lost in the fact that once it was over, Draco would return to his usual self. 

But Harry let him anyway, because he welcomed every touch Draco had to give as they were so rare. He missed his husband so terribly. But not this one. Harry missed the one who danced with him under starlight and kissed him in public because he just couldn’t help himself. 

Instead, Harry bent Draco over the kitchen counter and fucked him like he hated him. There were no exclamations of love or pleasure. Instead, heavy breathing punctuated the silence until they were both finished. 

They pulled apart quickly, and Draco muttered a cleaning charm. “I see you’ve set up for a party outside.” 

“I have,” Harry said, washing his hands and returning to the fruit that lay abandoned on the countertop. 

“The lights are cheesy.” 

When Harry turned with a glare, Draco had already left the room. 

Around eight in the evening, guests began arriving and Draco was nowhere to be found. Apparently, he had told Ginny he needed some time alone. 

Everyone had abandoned the surprise aspect of the party, and instead interspersed around the garden like bees of the same hive. Harry knew his home, and his lush garden, was conducive to such an environment. 

Despite the guest of honour’s disappearance, Harry was having a good enough time. George had spiked the pumpkin juice, and cheeks all around were stained a rosy pink. Everyone was swaying in place just a little more than usual. 

The sun was just beginning its descent over the horizon, and the sky was the colour of a ripe tangerine. Harry thought it was beautiful, but Draco preferred pink sunsets because they were softer and slower.

“They’re gentle and they take their time,” Draco had once said to him. 

A hand clapped Harry over the back and he startled, before recognising familiar faces. 

“You’ve done an amazing job with all this. I’m sure Draco loves it.” Ron grinned, holding onto a neatly wrapped present, which Harry received warmly. Hermione must have chosen it.

She appeared behind him and folded Harry into a hug. “I’ve missed you, you know. You don’t come around nearly as much as you should.” She frowned at Harry, but her eyes were filled with distinct affection.

“I know, I’ve been terrible.” Harry laughed, wrapping his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “I’ve missed you two. What have you been up to?” 

“Well, work’s been _so_ crazy,” Hermione began, pulling away from Harry to press against Ron instead. “I had a meeting with Angelina yesterday, and we decided to approve all the plans for the Minister’s first official international conference and —”

Harry let Hermione’s voice bleed into the background as he settled into the familiarity of the whole event. It was only a few times a year that he got together with his friends like this, and he missed it more than anything. He would do whatever it took to get it back, but wasn’t sure how to begin. He would never admit to anyone that he missed the war, because he didn’t. But he missed the camaraderie of it all, the sense of belonging. His Auror position would never fill that void, even if it had done the trick for his friend. 

Ron’s voice cut into his thoughts on cue. “I’m so relieved we closed that case, right, Harry? It was one of our bigger ones.” 

“Well, it was one of your bigger ones,” Harry said, forcing a tight bitterness down his throat. In the end, his words came out kind of sad. 

“No.” Ron frowned, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “We worked on it together.” 

They both knew that wasn’t necessarily true, as Ron had done the heavy lifting. But the department was reluctant to task Harry with an interesting case. Being a public figure was apparently more important than servicing the general public. Harry hadn't been given a field assignment for longer than he was willing to admit. 

Eventually, he took a seat at a table with Ginny and Pansy, who were practically eye-fucking each other from their chairs. If he didn’t feel like a third wheel with Ron and Hermione, he certainly did whenever those two were around. Oddly enough, Draco came to his rescue.

He settled into the fourth seat at the table. Draco reached for Harry’s hand, and he took it. The interaction was surprisingly cold. 

“Where’ve you been?” Harry murmured, unabashedly combing his eyes over Draco’s frame. 

He sat back in the wicker chair, still in his coal-coloured trousers from earlier. He had opted for a lighter shirt, a white and cottony button-down to which he had left half unbuttoned, a distinct sliver of his chest exposed underneath. He had exchanged his banking shoes for summer loafers, though they weren’t any less formal. 

Harry felt underdressed in his presence. 

He nervously fiddled with a loose thread on his blue jeans and wished he could transfigure his trainers into something more stylish. He sat further back in his chair and wondered why Draco always made him feel a bit inadequate. 

“I needed a breath,” Draco said, stretching out in the chair like a cat. 

“How are you liking the party?” Harry asked, a little too hopeful for his taste. 

“It’s not terrible, I suppose. Always room for improvement.” 

Harry sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to rise to the bait. “You look beautiful tonight, Draco.” 

Draco smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes and crinkle the corners like it usually did. When they were younger, Draco would blush a deep red and kiss Harry’s nose soft like a butterfly. Then he would poke fun at Harry for his choice of wardrobe before undressing the two of them anyway.

Instead, he said, “Thank you. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” That, at least, was the truth. 

Their conversations were so clinical, and Harry wished he could just reach out and knock some emotion back into Draco. When had apathy become a painful constant? 

Harry found himself frightened by the thought that his marriage would continue down a loveless path. He worried even more that neither of them wanted to be unemotional, but were unsure the other was thinking the same thing. A small part of Harry hoped that was the case, because that would mean Draco still cared for him in the way he had before. 

“How was work?” Harry asked, when Draco didn’t reply. He was fixedly gazing at Pansy and Ginny. Harry wondered if Draco resented them, like he did, for never losing their honeymoon love after so many years. 

“Truthfully, I didn’t have much work.” Draco shrugged, turning his eyes back on Harry. “I just wanted some space.” 

“Space?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse to his own ears. “What does that even mean?” 

“Don’t act like you don’t know what it means,” Draco said tightly, but he kept his voice low and controlled so their guests wouldn’t overhear. 

“You wanted to get away from me,” Harry said slowly as he parsed out the words in his head. He wasn’t surprised, and it didn’t hurt like it should have. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you hate me so much, but —”

“Come inside with me for a second.” Draco narrowed his eyes, but reached his hand out again for Harry anyway. 

Harry’s heart dropped. 

They had mastered the art of arguing in public. Hissing things at each other under their breaths and sharing tension-filled glares were second nature at this point. But rarely did Draco want to speak with Harry alone about something, and usually when he did, it meant he was going to yell. 

When they entered their bedroom, without garnering the attention of other guests, Harry cast a silencing charm. He sat at the edge of the bed awkwardly while Draco stood before him. He almost felt like a child about to be scolded by a parent, and the thought alone made his skin crawl. 

Harry flinched when Draco simply sat down on the bed next to him, leaning his head into his hands. Harry could tell by the way his shoulders shook gently that Draco was beginning to cry. 

He cried just as someone might expect him to — silently and rarely. 

Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s back before bending down to look at him. His hands were already wet with tears. 

“Draco, what’s wrong?” Harry said, hoping panic wasn’t colouring his voice. “Please, is everything okay?” 

Draco sniffled, letting tears wet the fabric of Harry’s trousers as he leaned into Harry’s lap. 

“Nothing is okay. Look at what we’ve become,” he said quietly. 

“We’ve grown up. There’s nothing wrong with that —” 

“It’s not just that, though.” Draco stilled his head as Harry wiped away loose tears with his fingers. They hadn’t touched like this in months, but the interaction still felt emotionless. “Something is going wrong with us. Tell me I’m not the only one who sees it. I’m not crazy, Harry.” 

“You’re not.” Harry sighed, combing a hand through Draco’s hair instinctively. “But that doesn’t mean this is something we can’t work on. We’ve been together for so long. Every couple has highs and lows.” 

“Most couples don’t have lows like this.” Draco sat back up, turning to face Harry. A sudden resolve cleared his face. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something.” 

Harry curled his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails dig painfully into the skin of his palm. “You better not be cheating on me,” he joked loosely, but worry was thick in his voice.

“I’m not!” Draco said, and Harry believed him. If anything, he wouldn’t lie. “I’m not cheating on you. But I do have something to say, and I want you to be open to it.” 

“Er, okay. Is it bad?”

“For fucks sake, Harry, just let me —” Draco forced a breath, pausing for a moment in an attempt to regain his calm. “I want something different than this.” 

“You _what_ ,” Harry said, angered by the implication. 

Draco sniffed, holding his head a little higher than before. Defending against anger was easier than sadness. “I don’t think this is working. I’m not the type to give up on things, Harry, but sometimes there are things worth giving up on. Our marriage, our life — this is not what I want anymore.” 

Harry choked back a sob, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes before putting them back on again. Draco came into view more clearly, but even the slightest bit of sadness from before had left his features. He was confident in his resolve. 

“There was a time I would’ve done anything for you, Harry. I would’ve flown to the end of the world on a fucking hippogriff if it meant I could see your smile.” Draco pressed a hand to his temples but focused his gaze on the ground, “I don’t feel those things anymore. I don’t know why, but that’s just how it is.” 

“You are un-fucking-believable.” Harry shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. Draco widened his eyes, shocked. “I do so much to make sure you’re happy. I do everything. I make you breakfast every morning for you to just eat that nut job Odessa’s danishes without even telling me.” 

Harry was hysterical, feeling his voice go high and crazed. Draco eyed him uncomfortably and then the door, as if he were planning a quick escape. 

“They’re just danishes —” 

“But they’re _not_ just danishes, are they?” Harry asked weakly. “We’ve grown apart, and yet I still try at every corner to win back your affections because I love you that much. I planned this stupid party just to make you happy, and all you had to say was that my decorations were cheesy.”

Harry wanted to cry too, but the strength to do so had dissipated. Instead, he felt like a shell of himself, a ghost, sitting in his bedroom and letting Draco throw away the only thing he really had left. 

“I love you just as much, Harry. I would never lie about that.” 

“You love me, but you’re giving up on me,” Harry said pragmatically. 

Draco didn’t bother to argue, and Harry knew his answer. 

They stepped out into the garden, and Harry didn’t miss the speed at which Draco plastered on a smile. They made their way back to the tables, where Draco pointedly left his side. Harry told Ginny she should handle the cake instead of him and waved off her concerns. 

“Just do it, Gin,” he said. She saw the look in his eyes and let it go. 

She emerged minutes later with the cake, and Draco’s eyes sparkled at her. After they sang Happy Birthday and he’d blown out his candles, Draco ruffled at Ginny’s hair affectionately and gave out half a dozen warm-hearted hugs like they were party favours. 

Harry felt more than a twinge of jealousy. 

He had never felt so alone while being surrounded by so many people. The party emptied out quickly afterwards. “It’s a Sunday, we have work tomorrow” and “Sorry, the kids are waiting up for us!” were the most common excuses he received. He knew people were leaving because thick tension strained heavily between him and Draco, though, frankly, he didn’t care. 

Harry wanted Draco to stay. He would do anything to make Draco stay. 

He entered the kitchen, beelining for the liquor cabinet, which was open more often than not. Without much thought, he selected a square-shaped tumbler that Draco had insisted was elegant and modern when they had purchased it. Harry didn’t much care what their glasses looked like as long as they did the job. He poured himself a substantial amount of Firewhisky, admiring how the auburn liquid curled around the back of his throat like fire. He loved every second of the sweet burn it gave him. He found that physical pain was the easiest to understand than any other. 

The clock struck twelve and Draco’s birthday was over. 

Another day of June had passed, and Harry was still left with a whole summer ahead of him. His favourite season would be spent entirely alone if he couldn’t find a way to convince Draco to stay with him.

After swallowing another glass of Firewhisky, he set to work on cleaning. The bag from Madam Odessa’s bakery sat inconspicuously on the counter, moved to the side as if it had been forgotten about. Immediately Harry reached for it, realising he’d absentmindedly left a few choice items inside. Thankfully, if anyone had seen anything, they wouldn’t question it much. It wasn’t uncommon for survivors of the war to take a little Dreamless Sleep once in a while if necessary. 

He fingered the blue vial of the other mysterious potion, and thought back to the stranger of the apothecary. 

_A few drops will do_. 

A cleared throat from the doorway sent Harry’s heart racing, and he hastily tucked the vial into his pocket. He steeled himself against the counter before turning around. Draco leaned against the frame, his hair still dishevelled from when George had roughed him up earlier, and Harry fought the urge to reach out and push the strands back into place. It was unusual to see Draco unkempt. 

“We should talk about earlier.” 

“There’s not much to talk about, is there?” Harry steadied his breathing in his chest and was too cognisant of the uncomfortable press of the vial against his leg.

“I think there’s a lot to talk about,” Draco said, approaching Harry at the counter until they were only inches apart. 

Harry was immediately uncomfortable, wishing he could put space between the two of them. Still, he postured, hoping Draco wouldn’t sense his nervousness heating the room. His hopes were dashed, of course. 

“Why do you look like that?” Draco narrowed his eyes, flicking them up and down the length of Harry’s body as if searching for a clue. 

“Like what?”

“Like you’re up to something.” He gazed at him suspiciously, as if Harry’s resolve might crumble under his eyes.

Harry had a bit of practice with this sort of thing, though. In the early days, Draco could weasel anything out of him, whether it be a guilty pleasure, gossip from one of their friends, or maybe even a secret purchase. That wasn’t necessarily the case anymore, and the lack of trust between them was an influential factor in that. 

“You’re being paranoid,” Harry said, sidestepping the man in front of him. 

Draco huffed, but neglected to offer a response. “I stand by what I said earlier.” 

“I don’t believe that.” Harry shook his head, removing a porcelain plate from the stack next to the sink and scrubbing away leftover cake with a sponge. He needed something to do with his hands. 

Draco rolled his eyes, aiming a cleaning spell at the dishes instead. The sponge irritably squirmed out of Harry’s grasp, and the plate detached itself too. Harry’s exasperation rose as he watched the plates clean themselves faster than he could have. 

“I’d rather do it myself, Draco. I’ve told you, God only knows how many times.” Harry leaned his weight against the sink and hung his head heavily between his shoulders. He couldn't find the will to turn around. 

“You ought to behave as though you’re a wizard and not a damn Squib,” Draco snapped, pulling on Harry’s shoulder and forcing him to meet his eyes. 

Harry bristled at the touch, but allowed himself to be moved. “I can make my own decisions, thanks.” 

“As can I.” Draco sighed, pulling out a chair at the table and gesturing for Harry to take the other. They sat awkwardly, as if they were casual acquaintances meeting for the first time after a long while. “I’ve done my thinking about this, Harry. I know this is not what you want, but it’s for the best. All I want is what’s best for you, what’s best for both of us.” 

Harry felt a tightening in his chest and a familiar drop in his stomach. This couldn’t be happening. After so many years, there was no way Harry would allow Draco to give up something that used to be the purest and most perfect part of his life. Even if their marriage had lost its former shine, it didn’t mean it was completely unsalvageable. 

The previous summer, Harry had attempted to cultivate a rare strain of azaleas that Neville had acquired on his last trip to Asia. He had promised Harry that if he had been unable to care for them, he shouldn’t worry, because Azaleas, in general, were some of the hardest flowers to take care of. But Harry had insisted anyway that they wouldn’t be a problem, and when the first few had come into bloom, he had wanted to gloat. He had been desperately excited that he was the exception to a long-standing rule. The flowers were a beautiful and deep orange with a ring of rosy pink at their rims. The stems, surprisingly, were an eggplant purple. Neville had told him that the best way to measure the health of a wizarding plant was through the state of its stem. Harry had been in the middle of writing an optimistic note to Neville about the success when he had glanced outside and the flowers had curled in on themselves. What remained had been unpleasantly wilted petals and stems that had turned a horrible shade of grey. 

Sometimes, Harry knew he committed too much time to futile projects, and he often wondered if Draco was one of them. 

“You don’t want what’s best for both of us. You want what’s best for you.” 

“That’s not entirely true, Harry, but what’s the harm in that? Wanting to do something for myself for once.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, hoping it hid rising panic. He bit at the inside of his cheeks, feeling the soft skin turn rubbery and raw underneath the press of his teeth. It wasn’t long before a bitter and metallic taste spread over his tongue. Even still, his voice wavered. “I can’t lose you.” 

Draco’s eyes softened, and he reached across the table as though he were going to take Harry’s hand. He pulled it back hastily instead. “Seems as though I’m already lost, though, don’t you think?” 

“Stop,” Harry bit out, his eyes blurring through tears. He took a few shallow breaths, hoping he could calm himself down, but it was unlikely anything would work. The panic was beginning to cloud him. “You cannot leave me. This isn’t over just because things aren’t as good as before.” 

Pain gathered around Draco’s features before he schooled himself back into apathy. He stood from the table, apparently weary from a conversation that was going in circles. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and I think I need to go to Ginny’s tonight. I’ll come for my things tomorrow.” 

“What?” Harry stood too, knocking the chair back and flinching as it clattered loudly against the hardwood. “No. You are _not_ leaving right now. This is not happening. Stay, please. Draco, you have to stay. You don’t understand.” 

Panic tore through Harry’s chest like the blade of a sharpened knife, and he winced. He steadied a hand against the table, but found his throat tightening as if it were closing, and he couldn’t speak. He gasped, clutching at his chest in alarm.

“Draco, I-I can’t breathe.” He heaved as the world spun dizzyingly around him. Harry sucked in a deep breath through his lungs, but faltered. Everything was tightening and compressing and squeezing inside of him. 

After a moment, he felt Draco’s lean arms wrap around him, smelling familiar cologne. It took many moments, but his breathing slowed as hands ran through his hair gently and habitually. This routine was far too common in the year after the war, but it had been a while since Harry needed to be calmed down like this. A small patch of Draco’s button-down was wet with tears, and he half expected him to yell for ruining a newly pressed shirt. He stiffened instinctively in Draco’s foreign grasp.

“Please, just stay. I’m only asking for tonight.” 

“Alright.” Draco sighed heavily, pulling away from Harry as though he had completed a task. He left for the bedroom without a second glance. 

Harry paced the length of the kitchen, extracting the blue vial from his jeans. Maybe he would give something new a try in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Spoiler note about the non-con. 
> 
> Non-con occurs in general between Harry and Draco during explicit scenes because Draco is under the influence of a suggestibility potion and therefore cannot consent to sex. I tagged a separate instance of non-con as "attempted" because there is one scene in which Harry is drunk and tries to have sex with Draco who very forcefully says no. Harry does not have sex with him at this point, but he does attempt to.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke to the sound of knocking against his window.

He barely startled from bed, witnessing Lyra peck ceaselessly at the glass. Eyeing him distrustfully, she ruffled her feathers out, stretching her small wings across the length of the windowsill. Harry always wondered where she went at night, but she was never home. 

He crossed the room silently, careful not to wake Draco — who was, by all means, a heavy sleeper until it was most inconvenient for him not to be. The hinges squealed as they were forced open, and Lyra clambered inside with all the grace of a hippogriff foal. She nipped at Harry’s fingers insistently, demanding preparation of her morning meal. Harry was more than happy to oblige if it meant she’d leave him alone. 

Most owls, including Hedwig, had been happy to catch their own prey and enjoyed the thrill of a good hunt. Lyra was lazy; she expected to be taken care of. That might have been Harry’s least favourite quality of hers. 

Harry poked his head out the French doors and held one hand out in the cold air. “ _Accio_ mouse!” His trick worked easily in the summer, but in the winter, he’d have to return to the Magical Menagerie to buy mice himself. 

The small rodent flew into his hands from behind a strawberry bush that wasn’t faring well at all. Harry would have to ask Neville about that when they next saw each other. The mouse squirmed around his fingers anxiously.

At first, Harry had been uncomfortable by the prospect of it. He maintained nowhere near Hermione’s level of infinite compassion for animals, though handing Lyra live prey made his stomach turn. After Draco had yelled at him to “grow up,” Harry forced himself to overcome the uneasiness. It was a habit now anyway. 

He passed the mouse to Lyra, who snatched it out of Harry’s fingers eagerly. 

“Oh, now you’re happy, aren’t you?” Harry grumbled at her, turning to the kitchen. He commenced his breakfast ritual, cracking eggs into an available frying pan with one hand. 

He pulled open the spice cupboard and fingered through the drawer for cayenne pepper. He had always liked it on his eggs, but Draco preferred them without. He fumbled through the cupboard for a moment before his hands met a cool vial. It was blue and translucent, and Harry had almost forgotten he had even stored it there in the haze of the night before. 

One side of him was arguing that it would be unbelievably irresponsible to use the potion on Draco. But the what ifs played on Harry’s mind more than they had ever before. What if it worked? What if it didn’t work? What if this was the answer they needed? A few drops couldn’t do _too_ much damage, and it would be worth it in the end if it somehow saved Harry from the empty void that lay at the end of their relationship. 

Harry didn’t have time to consider the consequences anymore; it was clear this was a last resort option. 

His hands worked mechanically underneath him, setting the kettle to boil and preparing the rest of their breakfast. He set the eggs out on the table, but they were fresh out of their usual country loaf. Draco would be irritable that there was no toast...unless. 

Harry separated their cups on the counter, pouring only a touch of milk into his own. He stirred both sugar and milk into Draco's directly, and with a deep breath and shaking hand, tipped in a few drops of the suggestibility potion. The tea morphed from caramel to an ocean blue, before returning to its original state. Harry restrained himself from taking a small sip and prayed it tasted like Draco’s usual, instead of something entirely different. 

Lyra chirped contentedly from her perch, and Harry didn’t have to turn around to know that someone else had entered the room. He hastily shoved the vial back into the spice drawer and brought the cups to the table. Lyra settled on Draco’s shoulder like a soldier, chest puffed out and eyes staring warily at Harry. 

“Good morning,” Draco said, taking a seat. 

“Morning.” 

“Cayenne on eggs.” Draco shook his head at Harry’s plate. “I’ll never understand you.” 

Harry allowed a low chuckle, but Draco’s mouth hardened into a thin line. He took a long sip of tea, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Despite channelling nonchalance, he found his eyes unable to pull away, especially when Draco set the cup down and smacked his lips uncertainly. 

“Milk and sugar?” Draco asked, as though he was uncertain of their presence in his drink. 

“As usual.” Harry cut his eggs into bites, hoping his thoughts weren’t painted on his face. He focused on the running yolk instead. When he gathered the nerve to look up, Draco had already moved on to the morning paper. 

They ate largely in silence, and distinct guilt bubbled around the edges of Harry’s stomach. He ached to take the tea back, to somehow acquire a Time-Turner and never visit the apothecary in the first place, despite knowing that meant losing his husband forever. But this wasn’t right at all. 

Harry gathered his courage and set his utensils down. The potion ought to have taken effect. “I know we haven’t talked much about yesterday.” 

“I know. We should.” Draco sighed, setting the newspaper back down and took a bite. Lyra extracted herself from his shoulder to inspect it. 

“I would like to _suggest_ —” Harry’s voice cracked, but he cleared his throat and tried again. “I want to suggest that we give this one last go. That we both focus on making our marriage work, instead of giving up the moment things get hard. We’re capable of that.” 

Harry took a breath, and Draco seemed to consider the thought. 

Though his face looked strained, he replied, “Yes.” 

“What?” 

“You’re right.” Something warm and whole appeared in Draco’s eyes that Harry hadn’t seen in years. He felt his heart soar, and his body was quick to follow. 

“I’m right?” he asked incredulously, a smile pulling on his lips. His tight grip on the sides of the chair loosened the slightest bit. 

“You’re right, Harry. We, well I, haven’t necessarily been trying to make this work as much as I should. I owe it to you to do better.” 

“Just like that?” 

Draco hummed in response. Harry couldn’t believe the potion would work this well, and so quickly at that. While the shopkeeper had mentioned strong wills could push past the bounds of its control, it was clear that Draco believed what he was saying to some degree. Maybe before, he wasn’t ready to swallow his pride and give their relationship one last try. Hope bloomed in Harry’s chest, and he felt like he could breathe a little easier for that.

–––

In the sticky heat, something pricked unpleasantly at the back of Draco’s neck on his way out the door. He moved to scratch it, but couldn’t gather much relief from the action itself.

Something felt terribly and irrefutably wrong, but he just couldn’t put a finger on it. Usually he was quite good at parsing out right from wrong, normal from abnormal. But what felt like an underlying sense of unsettlement was only growing as he Apparated to Diagon Alley. 

He wondered if he had really just agreed to stay with Harry or if he was trapped inside a fever dream of his own making. 

Ginny met him outside of Odessa’s. 

Odessa always conducted herself with an air of pure candor, and today was no different. It was why Draco's eyes widened considerably when she said what she did. 

“What’s wrong?” She searched his body like his own mother would have. Odessa would never be a replacement, but she certainly filled the soft void that Draco refused to acknowledge even existed. Ginny gazed at him, confused. 

“Nothing,” he said automatically. He’d gotten used to Ginny badgering him about his marriage at every turn, hoping to extract nothing short of a confession. Draco had grown to dodging her quite well, but Odessa was harder to fool. 

“Ginny, I’ll have to catch up in a bit,” he said, rather pragmatically, and didn’t miss when she huffed away from him. She knew better than to make a fuss in front of Odessa. 

“Draco, my dear, I implore you to come sit for a moment. Perhaps some breakfast and tea?” 

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I do have a day job.” His eyes twinkled in light of the tease, but Odessa’s face didn’t move. Draco had barely noticed something was wrong, so how could she? 

She frowned and held out a small paper bag, no doubt packed to the brim with her freshest bakes. “You forget that you’re easily readable to me, dear. You mustn't hide away behind that dreadful mask. You know how I always say a man’s best asset is his smile.” 

Draco grimaced instead, but couldn’t find it in his will to snap at the woman. She’d been a friend, even closer than one, for far too long. “Odessa, nothing is wrong. I simply woke on the wrong side of the bed this morning. I do have to run, but thank you very much for breakfast.” 

He kissed her cheek, as he usually did, and turned on his heel before more questions were directed his way. It wasn’t as if he could explain how he felt, really. But something felt the slightest bit off, and Draco was going to make it his mission to find out what. 

It hit him like a cursed Bludger when he was seated comfortably at his desk with a spread of croissants and danishes at his fingertips. It was at this time that Draco’s stomach would rumble, usually at the sight of such perfectly-baked foods. He’d always had a sweet tooth, while Harry, like a heathen, preferred savoury in the morning. He never wanted eggs as the first meal of the day, but he’d be damned if he was going to ask for something custom-made. Instead, he would forego the meal at home to enjoy a better one in his office. 

Upon the first bite, the creamy cherry danish coated Draco’s tongue in sugar, eliciting a cheer from his taste buds. At the second one, he wasn’t quite as eager. How unusual, he thought, feeling around his stomach experimentally with a finger. He was rather full and had forgotten the fact that he’d consumed an entire breakfast that morning. 

He had eaten Harry’s dreadful eggs. In fact, he’d wolfed them down without realising it. Maybe Harry hadn’t either because it was such a rare occurrence. Draco uncomfortably placed the pastries back into their bag. It was odd to do so, as he usually just crumpled up the empty paper and vanished it entirely. His musings were interrupted abruptly by an insistent knock on the door. He knew that sound anywhere. 

“Ginevra,” he called and she entered, careening towards Odessa’s morning treats. She selected an almond croissant from the heap and settled herself onto a velvet green couch across from Draco’s desk, propping her heels up on the coffee table. 

“So what was that all about?” Ginny asked through a mouthful of pastry. “Honestly, it’s like she wants to be your mother.” 

No one else would have made a statement like that for fear of upsetting Draco, but he appreciated that Ginny treated him quite normally. After all, they both knew Narcissa was stationed safely in Norway tending to a beautiful garden and spending her free time with a herd of purebred Granian horses. She was happy with her quiet existence, and Draco was even happier for her. She deserved it after a lifetime of misery. 

“You know her, she always thinks I’m ill or something,” Draco said, his voice guarded. “I’ve told her numerous times, I’m just _pale_.” 

Ginny snorted in laughter. “And even apart from the whole sickly pale thing you have going on, you’re just dreadfully skinny. A wizard straight out of the 14th century!” 

“So you’re saying I look like a survivor of the Great Famine.” Draco frowned, took a moment, and then lobbed a half-eaten danish at her in response.

She wailed a battle cry, aiming her croissant in his direction. 

“Okay, alright, Weasley!” Draco held his hands up in surrender. “You win. I will not have my office become the site of a juvenile food fight.”

Ginny frowned petulantly. “But that would be so fun!” 

Draco laughed at that, and felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and wrap her up in a hug. 

“Now that we have some privacy, can I ask you the question you’ve been avoiding?” Ginny said, but there was only comfort and affection in her tone. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but it’s good for you to let these things out. If it’s not with me, I know it won’t be with anyone else.” 

Draco supposed she wasn’t wrong, and he wanted to blame the whole ordeal on Harry.

 _He had a panic attack, so I stayed. It would be cruel to leave him like that, but I really did intend to go._ For a moment, he thought he’d spoken the words aloud. And, well, he had meant to. But they stuck inside of him, gluey like Honeydukes’ treacle fudge. 

Instead, he found his lips saying something entirely different. 

“We’ve decided to give our relationship one more go. We’re meant for each other, and it would be unfair to give up at the slightest inconvenience,” he spoke. The line seemed mechanical, almost rehearsed. But Draco couldn’t remember practicing such a statement. 

Ginny, though, nodded understandingly. Wouldn’t she, of all people, know when Draco wasn’t telling the truth? Was what he had said even the truth? Confusion bubbled inside of him like a tetchy cauldron. 

He tried again. _I didn’t want to stay, but I had to_. The words wouldn’t come out, and he began to panic. 

_Ginny, I can’t say what I want to say_. Draco swallowed a breath of air, but Ginny didn’t seem to notice. She directed the last piece of the croissant into her mouth and paged through a magazine at the coffee table. 

_Can you hear me? TELL ME YOU CAN HEAR ME._ He exhaled raggedly, finding that panicking wouldn’t do him any good. Still, his heart thumped uncomfortably against his chest, as though it were suddenly feeling claustrophobic inside of his body. 

A new approach would have to do. 

“Ginny,” Draco tested out once more, rolling the word around his tongue. She looked up casually from the magazine.

“Yeah?” 

“I’m, uh —” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to go to the loo.” 

“Alright,” she said, eying him warily. “Feel free to ask permission next time.”

Draco ignored her jibe and placed his hands neatly behind his back. It was something his father would do constantly, but Draco only did it now to prevent her from seeing his hands shake.

He walked down the hall silently, folding his fingers into milky white fists. Pain reverberated out from where his fingernails dug into soft skin. Reminding himself to take deep breaths, he pushed open the doors to the lavatory down the hall, exchanging a polite nod with an older man making his exit. 

Nobody was inside, thank Merlin and Morgana themselves. 

Draco stood over the sink, hands clasped around the corners. He aimed a fierce _Colloportus_ at the door, which forced itself shut. Running the tap of the sink and letting cool water press into his face still didn’t make him feel any better than when he had entered. 

“Deep breaths, Draco,” he told himself, feeling relief at his own words in his mouth. 

“Okay, let’s see.” Draco angled his head up towards the mirror, shutting the tap with one hand and drying his face with a quick charm. “My name is Draco Malfoy.” 

That worked. 

“I am twenty-five years old.” 

Everything was going well so far. 

“I am married to Harry Potter.” 

Another true statement. Hmm, he thought. Perhaps whatever ailment he was suffering from prevented him from telling lies. A hex Umbridge-ian in its origin, maybe. Though what he’d wanted to say to Ginny technically had been the truth, right? Or had it not been? 

Had Draco really only stayed because Harry had been panicking? It was possible. But it was also likely that he had wanted to stay because his husband was hurting and he loved him. That at least was true. 

Draco found himself slightly disappointed in how little he knew about himself these days. 

He walked back down the hall. 

“You look like you’ve seen a Dementor,” Ginny quipped, but her eyes lit with a faint worry. Draco conceded that he probably didn’t look his best. He’d unbuttoned his shirt a bit, as he’d overheated in the small space, and his hair was likely untidy after its brief meeting with water. 

“Oh, I’m just fine!” Draco said, and then immediately wasn’t fine when he noticed he’d just told a lie. Though it was a white one, and maybe whatever ailment he’d acquired could somehow distinguish between those and ones of a larger caliber. 

Maybe he had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. 

That’s what he decided to go with, as stressing out for the rest of his work day wouldn’t do him any good. Maybe, in a moment of panic, he’d tensed in front of Ginny and couldn’t reveal how he really felt. That was more likely than a random curse or illness rendering him unable to think for himself. That or he’d been secretly struck by the Imperius Curse, but that was a ridiculous and unfounded thought.

A peck at his window drew his attention almost immediately, and he let himself get caught in the excitement of seeing Lyra at his window. She held in her small beak a copy of the paper from that day. Draco really did try to read it in the mornings, but he was always too distracted by Harry to bother attempting anymore. Instead, he held it open in front of his breakfast as a pretense. Usually its presence would render Harry silent throughout their awkward meals. 

Draco took the paper from Lyra and petted her affectionately behind her ears as he went. She followed him to his desk, where he held out a few treats for her taking. She squeaked eagerly and nuzzled into Draco’s knuckles as a thank you. 

The _Daily Prophet_ was still hardly the most reliable source in the wizarding community. In fact, Luna’s _Quibbler_ was quite obviously more dependable. It retained the added benefit of lacking in mention of Harry or himself respectively. Still, the breaking headlines stood out to Draco like fiendfyre, and he wondered how neither of them had caught a glimpse of it at the breakfast table. Maybe Harry had and declined to mention it. To be fair, their minds had been elsewhere. 

_Three dead and two incapacitated! Ministry thwarts speculation of a new dark wizard, but the numbers say something else._

Draco paused for a moment as Lyra clambered ungracefully into his lap, her talons digging uncomfortably into his thigh, but he allowed her to perch anyway. She closed her eyes lazily against the gentle sunlight streaming in from the outside. Draco’s eyes caught on the dust particles moving through rays of yellow before turning his attention back to the darkness on his page. He noticed offhandedly that Hannah Abbott had written the article. She had been in his year, what, a Hufflepuff? A Gryffindor? 

It instilled a sense into him that she wouldn’t lie. This wouldn’t be some Skeeter nonsense to mislead the public after all. 

_As the details of the third death in the last week are privatised once more, the wizarding community speculates the cause. In an onslaught of new Ministry legislation, public record and information regarding active cases within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been suspended. It is unknown as to why these changes have been made, but many conjecture about the rise of another dark wizard. It is unclear at the moment whether the disappearances and deaths are connected, but in recent light this possibility is becoming increasingly plausible. Just a few months ago, right-hand man to You-Know-Who, Lucius Malfoy escaped custody entirely. One wonders if he may have something to do with–_

Oh, for goodness sake. Draco rolled his eyes and Lyra squawked in agreement. What a load of rubbish. 

Draco had never asked Harry about anything Auror related before. It would have been far too risky for the Aurors to have Harry in his position of power if they knew he was running home to tell his Death Eater husband — reformed though he was — the confidential details. So Draco never asked out of kindness and respect. Really, he never wanted to put Harry in an uncomfortable position like that — to choose between a spouse and a career. 

But something in the far reaches of his mind egged him on towards doing it. Maybe once, just once, he would enquire, if he ever mustered the curiosity and courage to do so. It couldn’t hurt. 

The little inkling in his mind magnified quickly at Draco’s slight reprieve of its presence. He knew that could not be a good sign.

–––

The sound of shears clicking and music filtering from the cottage surrounded Harry in a daze of comfort and relaxation. June sunlight bore down on his browned skin, and lines of sweat streaked darkly down his shirt. Harry was sure to get a tan from all the gardening work, though he always loved when his skin boasted that he’d been outside.

Summer season for the Aurors was never as busy as expected. Criminals never really stopped being criminals, but things certainly slowed down as the humidity made everyone just the slightest bit lazier. Harry took more days off than he could count, but no one cared too much because who wanted to work in the summer anyway? Draco did, of course. He had left for work early, as usual, after drinking his tea and agreeing to stay with Harry.

That’s what mattered. He was staying. 

“The ends justify the means,” Harry told a particular chocolate cosmo as he clipped weeds away from its stem. He gave it an affectionate pat on its petals, moving to the next one down the line. 

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, mate.” Ron crouched next to him, and Harry jumped. Ron reached out, clapping a hand on Harry’s back. “Garden looks great, though!” 

“I didn’t hear you come in.” Harry met Ron’s grin with one of his own. “Can I put you to work?” He held out an extra pair of shears, and Ron took them begrudgingly. 

“You know, when I came here, I expected a cup of tea and some biscuits.” Ron groaned, but followed Harry’s lead, cutting away at anything and everything.

Harry yelped, swatting Ron’s hand away just as it reached towards a red flower. “Ron, not the flowers! The _weeds_ , Merlin!” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “They all look the same to me.” 

An affectionate laugh escaped Harry’s throat. “Your wife is much better at this than you are.” 

“Yeah, well, she should’ve come here herself then,” Ron grumbled, snapping the shears in place, and a couple weeds fell to the soil.

Harry put his pair down. “She asked you here?” He was suddenly less interested in the flowers than he had been all day. 

Ron, instead, was fascinated by them in an instant. “What did you say these flowers were called again?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Oh.” Ron dropped his shears too, wiping sweat from his brow. “Can we go inside? It’s bloody hot.” 

Harry left his tools in the flowerbeds; he’d come back for them later. Ron led him inside and settled at the table in Draco’s seat. Harry busied his hands with the kettle to keep himself from jumping down Ron’s throat all at once. Sometimes it felt like his friends treated him with kid gloves, and he wasn’t too pleased with it. 

“She didn’t necessarily tell me to come over,” Ron said, after a moment of silence. Only a small bit of shame creeped into his voice. “You know I always enjoy hanging out with you. Just the two of us.” 

“I know that.” Harry shrugged, feeling a little defensive. He hated the idea of pity at all, especially when projected upon himself. 

“I don’t really know how to bring this up without sounding stupid, so I guess I’ll just do it.” Ron paused, and Harry turned curiously, bringing a cup to the table with him. He slid it across the way to Ron. “Ginny told us what happened last night.” 

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?” 

Ron fiddled with the handle of the cup uneasily. “Draco was leaving you. He was going to go to Ginny’s, all that.” 

Harry shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “How did she know that?”

“I guess Draco was going to stay at Ginny’s, but then he didn’t. He told her that he would come by in the morning and stay for a while until he could properly sort things out for himself. He never showed, and well, Ginny _and_ Hermione wanted me to come over here and see if you were okay, if something was going on between the two of you.” 

“So that’s why you’re here,” Harry said absently. 

“And for tea and biscuits!” Ron joked, but his half-hearted smile slid from his face when it wasn’t returned. “We’re just worried about you.” 

“Ginny’s worried about Draco,” Harry said, wishing he could suppress how bitter he sounded. 

Ron, at least, didn’t feign ignorance. “She is. But you are family to Hermione and me before anyone else.” 

“Not to Ginny?” 

“Of course to Ginny too, Harry.” Ron sighed. “But we all have our closest friends. You can’t blame her for that.” 

Harry took a breath, grounding himself firmly into reality and extracting himself from a tangle of resentful thoughts that threatened to drown him. “I know that.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn't blame Ginny for being a good friend.” 

“I understand how this makes you feel,” Ron said firmly, as if to say instead, _you’re not alone_. 

Harry knew he didn’t understand, though, but wasn’t going to waste time pointing that out. He was most definitely alone.

“We’re good, you know.” 

“You and Ginny?” 

“No, Draco. Draco and I are fine. We worked things out. Tell Ginny. I don’t want her to worry about him.” Harry was met with a poorly-hid look of incredulity. 

“He was leaving you last night…” Ron said slowly, processing Harry’s words. “And now he’s not? Just like that?” 

“We talked. I asked him to try one last time, and he said yes. I’m hoping we can patch things up. There’s really nobody else in the world that either of us wants to be with.” 

Ron looked uncertain. “Harry, maybe you feel like that, but are you sure he does?” 

“He does.” Harry played with his wedding band, moving it from finger to finger. “I’m certain.” A part of him was still largely unsure, but he had to believe it now more than ever. 

Harry felt eyes searching over him, attempting to extract some sort of explanation for which he had nothing to offer. Strangely, he felt transported to an interrogation room at the Ministry, and Ron seemed like he was about to tear through his mind with Legilimency or even tip some Veritaserum into his cup.

Harry was on the precipice. Just at the edge, waiting to be pushed right over. 

A few hours later, Ron left, and Harry hadn’t really told him what was wrong. It went like that often. People entered his home and prodded around like they had any business being there at all, and then left. They dipped their toes into water that Harry was already drowning in. 

It was barely six in the evening when he heard the lock slide open, and shivered at the adjusting wards. Draco usually worked late. 

Harry sat on the armchair, the one that, despite years of wear, remained functional. Splayed in his lap was a copy of something by Jack Kerouac, a Muggle author that Seamus mentioned enjoying. He couldn’t be bothered to flip the book on its frontside and relearn its title. Travel fiction was, admittedly, a boring genre, but at least he was doing something productive with his evening. 

Draco entered and, well, he looked stunning. Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was rare that he was able to watch Draco without him knowing so. Something about him seemed so innocent and docile when intrusive eyes weren’t laying heavy on his body. He looked a bit like an unsuspecting deer, and watching him felt more volatile to Harry than it should have. 

“Hi there.” Harry closed the book, making his presence in the sitting room known. The novel was called _On The Road_. 

Draco smiled sheepishly back at him. “I know I’m not supposed to be home this early.” 

Harry shrugged. “This is our home. You’re allowed to be here whenever.” 

“I usually eat at work.” 

“I do too,” Harry said, and wondered why they were having a conversation about things they already knew. 

“I thought we could eat together today.” Draco leaned his briefcase against the door and made his way to the couch, sliding down exhaustedly against a cushion. 

Harry’s mouth hung open with confusion. Was the potion working this well? Harry didn’t want to admit it, but a part of him had forgotten about the morning. He hadn’t necessarily expected it to change things so drastically. Dinner, to the unknowing eye, may not have seemed like an earth-shattering revelation. But to Harry, it marked a new beginning.

Draco wanted to spend time with him for the first time in years.

“Close your mouth, Harry.” Draco laughed, but it wasn’t sharp at all. There was colour to it. Light. 

“Yesterday you wanted to divorce me,” Harry said, as though he had no idea what caused Draco’s change of heart. 

Of course he did, but it was easier to pretend. 

“Well, now I don’t.” Draco stood and held a hand out to Harry, as though the answer were enough of an explanation. Harry took it instinctively, comforted by the familiarity of Draco’s touch. “Come out back with me.” 

Harry followed behind, and they paused at the French doors. Draco kicked off his dress shoes and pushed them to the side of the doorway. Harry frowned, but left his on. He stepped to the side as Draco pushed open one door and then the other. He planted his bare feet firmly onto the grass and directed himself towards the vegetable garden. 

Draco was absolutely unequivocally going mad, Harry thought. He had broken his husband. 

“Draco, what —” 

“Can’t you feel it?” Draco interrupted, digging his toes deep into the soil and closing his eyes. 

“Feel what?” Harry stared, wide-eyed and unsettled. Maybe if he made Draco throw up, the potion would come out. Though it must have entered his bloodstream already in the passing hours of the day. Maybe he could rush back to the apothecary for an antidote; it wasn’t due to close until ten that evening. There were options. Everything was fine. Harry located a throbbing ache in his head and focused on it until it hurt more. He deserved its pain.

“The sun,” Draco breathed, crouching down on his knees and reaching into the planter box. He selected a round bell pepper, crimson in color, and held it in his hands. “We grew these together, Harry.” 

Harry hesitated, but sat himself on the edge of the wood, observing his husband in the dirt. Maybe he was hallucinating and would wake up to the sterile walls of St Mungo’s at any second. There was absolutely no reality in which Draco Malfoy, under the influence of a potion or not, would let himself walk barefoot in the dirt. Yet here he was, doing just that. 

And that’s when Harry registered that this was not real. It was not Draco at all. 

“I’d like to make something with these,” Draco said, pulling another pepper from its stalk. “I can cook if you don’t want to.”

Harry chuckled to mask his anxiety. “You’re a hopeless cook.” 

Draco frowned, but shot Harry with a playful smile. “Then it's probably best that you do all the work, right?” 

Harry chuckled. “Why did you take off your shoes?” 

“I don’t know.” Draco sighed, pulling himself reluctantly to his feet and holding both peppers in one large hand. Harry couldn’t help but admire the way his fingers stretched over the swollen red. “I felt like it. It’s nice to do something that you just want to do without thinking of the consequences.” 

Harry could understand that. 

“Stuffed peppers for dinner?” Harry mused, reaching a hand out for the vegetables. They hadn’t eaten something creative like that in a while. 

Draco pulled them out of his reach teasingly and met Harry with a wry smile. “Only if you promise they’ll have feta.” 

It had been so long since Draco had teased Harry like this, and he could feel the tears behind his eyes before they came. They trailed down his face incessantly before he could swallow them in, and he felt weaker than ever before. Harry’s hand went to cover his mouth as he stifled a sob. He turned, hoping Draco would ignore him and just go back inside as he usually would. But strong arms wrapped around Harry from behind, and he felt a head press into his neck. 

“Why are you crying, love?” Draco asked, his words muffled in Harry’s shirt. 

Draco would never call him a pet name. 

“I’m not used to all this.” 

“This used to be us, you know?” Draco turned Harry around gently, wiping tears away with his fingers. “And I know it hasn’t been us for a while. But I think with some work it could be. What do you say?”

Harry choked, wondering how Draco hadn’t noticed that those words had been fed into his mouth the very day before. It wasn’t real, Harry had to remind himself. But he knew it would become harder to distinguish reality from this when his husband was finally, _finally_ showing him something other than apathy or disgust. Harry had already, reluctantly, decided it was best not to administer such a potion again. But if this was the way things could be, it wouldn’t really harm either of them in the end. Draco seemed happier even, like a weight had been taken from his chest. Harry certainly felt like this was a Draco he knew better than the actual one.  
When his tears dried, they went inside, and Harry put extra feta into the bell peppers anyway. 

Cooking had always been relaxing to Harry. Something about chopping vegetables and drizzling olive oil and stirring things in a pan was soothing and formulaic. Draco always liked using his wand, letting foods chop themselves. It was reminiscent of the Burrow in some ways, when Harry would return home and see Draco sprawled out at the table while sliced bread floated itself into the Muggle toaster. Harry never cared much for the magic of cooking, though it was fascinating to watch. He preferred to have control over the ingredients himself. 

For that reason, they had plenty of Muggle contraptions in their home kitchen. Harry extracted the bell peppers from the oven and laid the pan out on the stovetop. They had blackened on the very edges, but the filling of mushroom, feta, and tomato had cooked beautifully. It was nice to know that magic hadn’t done this, and he had. 

“That smells great.” Draco sniffed from the table, tearing his eyes away from pending documents. New Draco was still obsessive about his work, even when coming home early for the day. It was comforting to know that was a constant. 

Harry smiled into a glass of water, and set it down on the counter to prepare plates. He slid one across the table, as he usually did for breakfast. But something about the fact that they were sharing an evening meal together felt more intimate than it had before. 

On weekends, Draco would always excuse himself to the bedroom before dinner just to avoid conversation. And Harry would let him, despite worrying about Draco’s weight and if he was really eating enough. It was clear that, usually, he was not. The Draco across from the table, though, groaned into his fork at the first bite, and Harry grinned. He never needed validation to know he was a good cook, but it never went amiss. 

Harry didn’t necessarily want to belabour Draco with more questions and potentially stave off the effects of the potion. Frankly, he couldn’t help himself. “Draco?” 

“Mmm,” Draco responded through a closed mouthful of food. He dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin. 

“When you were saying earlier that you wanted to make this work, what did you mean by that?” Harry poked at his food, feeling little desire to eat despite protests from a rumbling stomach. 

Draco took a long sip from his glass. “I meant to agree with you.” The words seemed forced, somehow.

“But what does that mean?” Harry was aware he seemed a little crazed, but he wasn’t sure where the bounds of the potion lay. It was clear that the smallest of suggestions made by another would be exacerbated in Draco’s mind to a point of fixation. But would it let the real Draco think for himself even still? If that was the case, then Harry wouldn’t mind using the potion again. Maybe just once. Or twice. 

“What it means is that I’m willing to give this a try. As you mentioned, I still love you but was not willing to put in the effort to save our marriage anyway. I’ve changed my mind about that now. If I do love you, which I do, then I am not opposed to actively trying to save whatever we have destroyed.” 

Harry couldn’t tell if Draco had spouted that from the potion, but he wanted to believe it more than anything. So he did. 

“I want that as well. I want us to go back to the way we were before.” Harry frowned into his plate, hoping that didn’t seem naive. 

Draco reached across the table and tilted Harry’s chin up affectionately. “I don’t think we can go back to the way things were before. But I don’t think that means our love for one another isn’t just as strong. We have to work on what we are now, in the present.” 

Harry nodded because that felt real, and his cheeks heated with warmth. Draco smiled softly, and Harry couldn’t help but admire the little crinkles by his eyes when he did. He didn’t smile often, so they were faint and all the more exciting to see. 

The potion itself seemed to have been potent enough to last all day, but Harry wondered when it would need to be administered again. 

He had thought, at first, it would behave like a drinkable Imperius Curse. Within the Auror department, partners often came across illegal labs experimenting with bottling the Unforgivables, but the numerous attempts were never successful. And, well, this one didn’t seem so bad. Draco was clearly in his right state of mind. If anything, he was only more open-minded and understanding than before, as if the potion made him think a little before opening his mouth in anger. It broke past Draco’s characteristic wall of stubbornness. Harry’s guilt was vanishing, and he felt less sick and more hopeful. No real harm was done at all, right? It was just once. To get Draco to _listen_. There was nothing wrong with that at all if his husband was still making his own decisions. 

This was all fine, it really was. If he needed to use it again, that would be fine too. 

After dinner, Draco sent the dishes to clean themselves, and Harry held his tongue from complaining. He often found himself staying in the kitchen to do the washing up just to avoid interaction with Draco. Now, if they were both really committed to fixing things, that would be unnecessary and unfair. Instead, Draco suggested a film.

“A film?” Harry’s eyes widened from across the room, but he joined Draco on the couch. “You hate Muggle television.” 

“I do not!” Draco said defensively, but lifted his feet onto Harry’s lap. “I just think the box is an eyesore in the living room.” 

Harry laughed, digging for the remote between the cushions and extracting it with an “Aha!” Draco was not wrong. Televisions were not exactly pleasing to the tasteful eye.

He aimed the remote at the box and switched it on. _Notting Hill_ was already playing on the channel, and Harry knew it was horribly cheesy because he’d spent countless nights watching movies alone. Draco would never admit he loved a sappy romantic comedy, but Harry let it play anyway knowing it would be appreciated even in secret. 

On screen, London was displayed like a charming advertisement for a bed and breakfast. The reality was a little different. But Draco’s eyes fixed upon the television, rapt with attention. It was clear he liked Julia Roberts' character the most. She was beautiful, cautious, and refined. Something like Draco himself. 

They both dozed off on the couch, and Harry eventually woke. The television was still on, murmuring a scene from another romance film. Moonlight shone brightly through the living room window as if it were lit up entirely by itself. The night didn’t seem as cold as it did before. Harry gently lifted Draco from where he was curled into the corner of the couch and wrapped his arms sturdily around him. 

Draco barely startled, always a heavy sleeper. Instead, he burrowed into Harry’s chest like he was coming home. Harry carried him to bed, but didn’t take his clothes off. Draco would be upset if he did. Instead, he tucked him comfortably onto one side of the bed, and Harry climbed as softly as he could into the other. 

He felt tears prick at his eyes when searching hands met his chest and pulled him in.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco woke earlier than Harry and was immediately surprised at his location. He’d been tucked gently into the covers, and when he peered down at himself, he was even more startled to find himself clothed in last evening’s attire. 

Harry hadn’t undressed him, and a wave of relief made its way through Draco’s system. 

Initial discomfort dissipated like smoke through clean morning air. The window was open, and Lyra was fanning her feathers dry in the wind. It must have rained last night, even though the morning was peaceful and bright. The plants were marshy, swamp-like in their appearance. 

Usually, Draco anticipated anger and frustration to characterise the beginnings of his days, but something in his mind had clicked into place. He, or something inside of him, was determined to break a typical cycle. 

Draco untangled himself from the mess of blankets, rubbing his eyes, heavy with sleep, and stretching out against the bedpost. Lyra gave a hoot of joy as he approached her, scratching the area just under her chin. 

Sounds from the kitchen of Harry cooking didn’t seem to bother him like they used to, and he struggled to understand why. He’d always loved that Harry was a morning person — at least one of them was. But he’d grown up with quietness, and appreciated the stillness of a slow start. Harry, on the other hand, jumped into the day like there was nothing more exciting for him to do, and Draco grew to despise it. 

Now, hearing the clanging of pots and pans as Harry struggled to summon the right one was oddly endearing. 

Still, even knowing that his husband was busy with his hands, Draco locked the door when he changed. He wasn’t sure when he’d become so uncomfortable with his body, but he was plagued by the existence of it at every passing minute.

Harry, in the early days, never commented on the odd insecurity. But Draco knew that there was something unhealthy about the way he could barely let his own partner touch his bare chest. Sometimes he didn’t want to touch it himself. Draco knew if he shifted his gaze down by just a fraction of an inch he’d be faced with icy white scars that stretched unattractively across the length of his chest. He fixed his eyes unfalteringly on the ground instead. 

Eventually, after promising himself to take a shower later, Draco dressed and exited the bedroom. Lyra followed happily behind. When he saw Harry’s back turned at the stovetop, something bubbled uncomfortably in his stomach. He couldn’t place the feeling, but it tugged at him incessantly as he sat down. 

“Good morning!” Draco frowned quickly, finding his voice much more enthusiastic than he had wanted it to be. 

Harry looked startled too at the show of cheerfulness. His simple, “Morning,” was much more sedate, almost suspicious. 

“How did you sleep? Thank you for taking me to bed last night. I really enjoyed the film.” Words were tumbling from Draco’s mouth before he could stop them, and it took all of his willpower not to slap a free hand over his mouth to halt the flow. 

He found something in his chest growing panicky and restless, but resolved to take a few breaths and calm down. Reacting like he had in his office wouldn’t be prudent, especially if he was suffering from some temporary illness or hex. 

If he wasn’t, which was more likely the case, he decided checking himself directly into the Janus Thickey Ward might be wise. 

Harry smiled weakly, serving eggs onto his plate. Draco looked down at them, feeling less hungry than ever before. Somehow, he registered his hand moving itself to the food without direction. He grabbed his right hand with his left and silverware knocked from the table, clattering noisily to the ground. 

Harry gaped at the sight. “Everything okay?” 

“Yes, everything’s just fine,” Draco said all too swifty. He detached one hand from the other and gritted his teeth. 

_Eat his food._

“What?” Draco said aloud, before realising the request had come from the inside of his head.

“Draco?” Harry questioned, cocking his head. “I didn’t say anything. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Draco said roughly, attempting to stifle any rising alarm. He needed to get a hold of himself. 

_Eat his food._

_No!_ Draco snapped to the foreign voice in his head. He didn’t want to eat at all and would be damned if some internal part of his subconscious was going to force him to. 

But, before he could say another word, a blinding pain erupted from behind the center of his face. He slammed his eyes shut to block off incoming light from the patio doors. He could hear Harry saying his name, but the sound was blurry and distorted as if it were miles away.

 _You must eat his food. He cooked for you._ This voice, the one from within, was clear as day.

Draco felt his stomach flip as nausea crashed and crested around him in waves. He could barely see through the pain by the time he opened his eyes and reached for Harry’s fork. Shovelling a bite of eggs into his mouth provided the sweetest relief he had ever felt before. 

Harry looked at him, open-mouthed from across the table, his green eyes fearful. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to speak. 

_Thank him._

“Thank you!” Draco yelped, afraid any lag would incite any more pain. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked warily, skin creasing in his forehead. “What just happened?” 

Draco knew he could be honest. It might save him the trouble of worrying that his mental state was spiralling into oblivion if he was. On the other hand, he didn’t want to worry Harry, who would make it his life’s mission to fix whatever ailment Draco had acquired. A part of him didn’t want to deal with the attention that came with that. 

At the end of the day, he reasoned that this was probably something subconscious. Just another bullet point on the list of things wrong with Draco Malfoy. 

“I’m fine, I just have a headache,” Draco said. “Maybe I’ll owl in sick.” He summoned Lyra with two fingers, and she followed them eagerly. 

“You never skive off work.” 

“How observant,” Draco quipped and immediately regretted it. A rupture of pain fractured out from behind his eyes. His hand flew up instinctively, massaging his forehead as he attempted to hold back a sob. 

He’d been Crucio-ed many times, but in many ways this was far worse. 

The unpredictability of the pain was what made his situation so frightening. At least when he was being tortured, he’d hear the words first and know what was about to happen. Now he’d need to play a guessing game. What would set off the pain, and what wouldn’t? Insulting his husband was an uncrossable line. 

“Harry, I have a bad headache. I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, and his words were soft and light. There was a touch of sweetness in his tone that he hadn’t intended to let on. But Harry seemed pleased, and like he wasn’t about to ask another question, so Draco considered it a job well done. 

They continued breakfast primarily in silence while Draco wrote a note for Lyra to take to Gringotts on his behalf. He then wrote another one for Ginny. 

_Feeling sick today, won’t be in. Tell Odessa I’m sorry and that you’ll eat every last one of her pastries. Maybe then she’ll spare us both, DM._

He attached the parchment to Lyra’s leg, and she took to the skies immediately after she’d been released. Harry watched her go with a poorly concealed resentment painting his features. Draco wanted to reach out and smack him but was promptly rewarded with a sharp pain in his head. 

So negative thoughts about Harry were off-limits as well. Clearly, his subconscious wanted him to fix his marriage, maybe more than he did himself. Draco thought back to the night before when he’d said things he could never have imagined himself saying. It all seemed hazy and unclear, like a bit of a fever dream that he was clinging to the memory of. There had been no pain yesterday, but he had certainly been unable to control his words. Though at the time, he’d attributed it to one too many glasses of wine. Did he even drink any wine? He cursed himself for being unable to remember. 

Harry stood from the table and crossed to the other side to press a kiss atop Draco’s head. 

Draco desperately wanted to lean away but knew what would happen if he did. He worked to appease his entirely unwelcome inner demon instead and allowed the intimate interaction. He’d just have to grit his teeth and wait this one out. 

“D’you want me to stay home with you?” Harry said, his voice still gentle. Draco wasn’t sure why a small part of him found it sweet. Though if he was entirely truthful with himself, spending the day with Harry was one of the last things he wanted to do. 

_Say yes._

“What?” Draco said wildly, despite knowing Harry hadn’t been the one to say anything at all.

 _Say yes._

“I said, would you like me to stay home with you?” A layer of irritation was seeping into Harry’s tone, but Draco could barely pay attention. After a pause, he asked again, “Hello?” 

“No, don’t — ah!” Draco cried out, clutching at his temples and slamming his head down on the table with a rough crack. 

“Draco, shit, is it that bad?” Harry gasped, kneeling on the ground next to his chair. “Talk to me. What’s going on? Do we need to go to the hospital?”

Draco inhaled raggedly against the hard surface, attempting to focus on anything but the intensity and overstimulation of feeling in his skull. He wanted to tell Harry to get out and quit badgering him with questions, but he would do anything to make the pain stop. 

“Okay, fuck, yes, stay home with me, please,” he whined and hated how he sounded like a child. But the pain cleared away abruptly, and the relief that followed was practically symphonic. 

Maybe he’d listen to the voice in his head for a while, even if it meant spending more time with Harry than strictly necessary. It would pass in time. It had to. 

Lyra had already left, and Draco watched as Harry conjured a Patronus to send to Ron. He idly wondered what they’d do with their day. If it meant avoiding such horrible pain, Draco would do anything asked of him. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Harry asked nervously, fidgeting with his wedding ring as he always did when he was uneasy. Draco wondered why a headache, of all things, would make him anxious. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” Draco said, choosing his words carefully. Nothing negative, he reminded himself, though he knew it wouldn’t last long. 

“I’ll be in the garden, if you need me then.” 

_Go with him._

“I’ll come with you,” Draco said hurriedly at the voice’s mercy, floating dishes to the sink and setting them to clean. He was surprised when Harry neglected to protest. 

Harry eyed him cautiously once more before opening the doors to the outside. 

The day was unseasonably sunny, but a wind chill made its presence known. Fine hairs on Draco’s arms stood up in response. He wondered why he wasn’t more worried about getting his shoes dirty but found that it was one of the last things on his mind. He followed Harry to the patch of peppers in the back of the garden. 

“ _Accio tools_ ,” Harry said, and a few shovels and shears came flying out from underneath various plant boxes. One particular trowel smacked sharply at Draco’s shoulder before settling into Harry’s palm.

“Oi!” he yelped. 

“She does that sometimes.” 

“Does she now?” Draco asked, incredulous. Only Harry would treat Muggle garden tools like sentient beings. The thought of it was charming, but Draco pushed the predilection from his mind as quickly as it came. 

Draco didn’t want to sit in the dirt, though it seemed like there wasn’t another option. He thought back to the night before, where he’d done so much willingly and openly without much consideration. It felt unfair to surrender to those feelings now. 

He stood instead, feeling his legs shaking as he went. He didn’t think he could bear another bout of pain. 

“I actually think I need to lie down for a bit,” he said cautiously, awaiting any sign of activity from his head. When nothing came, he let out a small sigh of relief. 

Harry had turned back to his vegetables. 

Draco felt a twinge of annoyance at being ignored. Harry had always bothered more with the plants than Draco himself. He knew that everyone needed an escape, but Harry sought one out too often. It wasn’t like Draco was any better at it, but it still hurt to be forgotten. 

He had barely shut the patio doors when a sharp knock at the front announced an arrival. Draco had only turned the brass knob by an inch when the rest of the entry swung open to reveal a frantic Ginny on the other side. 

“What the absolute hell, Draco.” She stormed inside. If she were larger, she might have thrown him up against the wall and demanded an explanation. Draco absentmindedly thanked his ancestors and drew himself to full height. 

“Hello to you too.” 

“You’re never sick, Draco. In the years I’ve worked with you, you have never once skipped a single day.” Ginny placed her hands on her hips, eyes ablaze with fury. “You’re going to tell me what’s going on right this instant.” 

“I was feeling out of sorts today,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. Ginny seemed as though she wanted to pounce on him at any second and maybe rip out his jugular in the process. 

“Last winter, you had a fever for a week and insisted on coming in to work every single day still! You got _me_ sick because of it, and then we had to take you to the hospital, for Merlin’s sake, and you requested your paperwork! Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.” She scowled. 

“Fine, come in. But be quiet about it, will you?” Draco muttered, leading her into the bedroom. “I don’t need Harry getting on my case about this, either.” 

When the door had closed behind her, and a silencing charm was cast over the room, Ginny spoke again. 

“Don’t lie to me,” she gritted out. “Is everything okay, you know, with him?” 

“With Harry?’

“Who else would I be talking about, you idiot?” she snapped, but there was no bite behind her words. Genuine concern and worry spread across her face instead. “He’s not forcing you to stay, is he? I swear —” 

“Ginevra, get a grip. He’s not forcing me to stay. Nothing could make me do that,” Draco said, pacing the room before realising that something likely had. 

Something _had_ made him stay. He had been prepared to leave, his bags had been packed, and he had a private bedroom waiting for him at Ginny and Pansy’s for an indefinite amount of time. He still wondered, worried about what had made him change his mind. 

Draco exhaled roughly, finding a seat at the edge of the bed and digging his fingers into the soft comforter. The bed dipped gently next to him, and Ginny held out her hand. He took it. 

“I worry about you. Honestly, I worry about you both. Something’s not right here, and I wish you two would just talk to me. Or anyone!” 

Draco couldn’t help but agree, but he’d be damned if he were to say it out loud. As much as he loved Ginny, this was his private business. It was something for him and Harry to work out together, without an audience. 

Instead, he said, “I’m fine. You worry like a mother, but there’s no need. I genuinely just had a headache today.” Which was, in part, truthful. 

“Just a headache, yeah?” Ginny eyed him suspiciously, but she seemed dangerously close to dropping the subject, and Draco settled at the reprieve already. 

“Yes,” he said stiffly, hoping the lie wouldn’t wreak havoc on his head. When it didn’t, he resisted a cry of relief. 

“I want you to be able to talk to me if something is wrong,” she said, looking down unhappily at her heels. “I know I can come on too strong, but I care about you. I’m sure you would act the same way if our situations were reversed.” 

Draco knew she was entirely too clever for her own good. 

“You’re right. I would.” He sighed, shifting his weight in his seat. “If I feel as though something is seriously wrong, I’ll talk to you. I promise. But until then, please leave me alone so I can get some rest.” He poked her side and pasted on an adoring smile. 

“Good.” Ginny leaned in and pressed herself into his side for a hug. “I better get going then. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lying here dead with an AK to the chest or something.” 

“Oh, trust me, I wouldn’t do that to myself.” Draco barked out a laugh. 

“It’s not you that I’m worried about,” she said, giving him a pointed look before gathering her bag and leaving him with the thought. Draco frowned into his hands at the implication, but pushed it from his mind. 

Draco undid the silencing charm just in time to hear the front door slam shut from a distance. He lay back on the bed, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of birds chirping outside. It was peaceful like this. He was never the type to skive off work, but there was something comforting in the freedom of his day. He felt himself beginning to doze off. It was only moments later that Harry entered and ruined the quiet. 

“Done with the garden?” Draco asked, lifting his head lazily from a pillow. 

“Yeah, I didn’t have much to do today.” Harry shrugged off his shirt, and Draco let himself admire his husband’s toned figure. Harry wasn’t quite as wiry and small as he had been at Hogwarts. Years of Auror training and fieldwork had turned his body strong and capable. Draco felt a blush creep upon his face, though Harry didn’t seem to take notice. He continued stripping off his clothing, presumably to prepare for a shower. 

_Touch him._

Oh, absolutely not. 

Draco wanted to hit himself across the head with a solid object and searched the room for an item of his choosing. This was neither the time nor place that they usually conducted that sort of business. It was true that he often sprang sex upon Harry when he was in the mood, but it was always a quickie, and it was rarely in the comfort and intimacy of their sleeping space. Draco looked at the sunlight streaming through the window and winced. It was too bright in their room for sex anyway. 

_Touch him now._

The beginning twinges of pain began to make their presence known in the familiar spot between Draco’s eyebrows, and he pressed at his head tentatively. He knew he couldn’t wish the feeling away, but if there was ever a time he prayed that he could have, it was now. 

Draco stood anyway, making his way to where Harry was standing in front of their laundry bin. His feet moved almost mechanically, without much consent from Draco himself. Harry smelled like sweat and soil, and Draco hated himself for letting it wind him up like this. The feeling in his head wasn’t gone just yet, though, and Draco hesitated before reaching out. 

Another sharp flash of pain pushed him forward, seeking out every surface of Harry’s skin he could touch to ease the throbbing.

“Oh, Draco —” Harry startled, turning abruptly, but he welcomed Draco into his arms easily. 

_Kiss him._

And Draco did. He reached up from his grasp in Harry’s arms and pressed bruising kisses to the corner of his jaw gently. Harry melted pliantly into the touch. 

“Bed?” Harry asked, his eyes hooded. 

A slight nervousness made its presence known in Draco’s stomach, but he nodded yes anyway. He felt himself twitch underneath his trousers in encouragement. There was no question that he, or something inside of him, wanted this badly. 

Harry picked him up and eased him gently onto the bed as though he were as light as a feather. Draco’s eyes met Harry’s, and he couldn’t deny the intensity, the passion that remained between them. It was why they had sex despite all the fighting. Sometimes it was the only way Draco felt like their relationship was still alive and kicking. 

Draco allowed his hands to be pinned above his head as Harry kissed down his chest. And then he reached for the buttons. 

Draco wanted to wrench himself away, but he felt frozen to the spot. He directed his body to move, but it disobeyed — instead, it responded to the voice in his head that was silently egging Harry on. 

“I — Harry, um, don’t —” 

_Let him._

He desperately didn’t want to. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex, because his entire body provided evidence to the contrary. But he wanted his shirt firmly attached to his body as it usually was. 

He just wasn’t ready yet. 

“Harry,” Draco said, gathering his breath for one more attempt. _Please don’t take my shirt off_. The words died in the back of his throat and never made it to the surface. Harry’s eyes were eager with desire. 

“I was thinking you’d let me take this off?” Harry asked quietly. “You can say no, of course. If you’re not comfortable.” 

_No._ “Yes.” Draco’s breathing became shallow. Why in the hell had he said that if he wasn’t even remotely ready? He wasn’t sure how his lips could’ve betrayed him like that when everything inside was screaming at him to stop. 

_It’s too light out, Harry. I don’t want you to see. Stop._

But Harry was already starting on the first button, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. A couple of buttons down, and his eyes pricked with tears that he struggled to hold back. At the last button, he just let it out. 

Harry’s head snapped up, and he tore his hands away from his chest. Harry gathered a blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around Draco, laying down next to him and easing him into his arms. 

“Draco, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to push you, really,” he said, his expression laden with guilt.

Draco wiped at his eyes hastily, holding the blanket to his chest like a lifeline. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said because it was technically the truth. 

“Well, you should have at least tried,” Harry said stiffly before heading for the shower.

–––

“Merlin, fucking hell, fuck.”

Harry looked up from his coffee, startled. “Christ, Ron, it’s only a meeting.” 

“I was _just_ settling into a relaxing summer, and then this happens!” Ron groaned, shuffling papers around his desk before looking at Harry, who was sat on the other side. 

“Ron, you know, we did sign up to be Aurors.” 

“I know, but I’ve closed some massive cases this year. I could afford a break,” he grumbled, and Harry held back the urge to say something rude.

It wasn’t as though he’d been offered any of the larger cases, and he would have taken them in a heartbeat if only to feel like he was doing something productive. At least there was this. 

The Minister had called them in on an assignment, and while Harry and Ron were not partners, they were to work together on this particular case for unspecified purposes. 

It was an exciting prospect, at least to Harry. 

When they walked into the boardroom, Minister Shacklebolt, dressed in deep blue robes, was already at the head of the table. At his side, Hermione looked stoic and composed. She sent a side glance at Harry and Ron and smiled with her eyes. They returned the smile to her with enthusiasm. 

The boardroom was large and long, unlike many of the other rooms in the Auror department. It wasn’t bare and simplistic but rather covered in photos, wanted posters, missing posters, coffee shop flyers, etc. The walls themselves were a burnt orange hue, the wooden table that ran long across the room was splintering from years of wear, and there was coffee and tea in the corner. The Aurors didn’t have a break room, so when Ron decided the boardroom was the perfect replacement, everyone seemed to follow along. They spent their lunch breaks and free time at the table as a group. 

Harry found it a little hard to be around everyone, as they still acted so differently around him, but people loved Ron, and he was Ron’s best friend. It scored him points. 

Seamus collapsed into the seat next to Harry, but his partner was nowhere to be found. 

“Ewyss hasn’t been assigned?” Ron asked, peering out from behind Harry’s back. Seamus turned to him and reached a hand out in greeting. He gave the same to Harry. 

“Nah.” Seamus shrugged, taking a sip from his coffee. “This is a big one. Top secret and all. Only the _best_ Aurors get to take part,” Seamus said gleefully. 

“Then who let you in here?” Ron teased, creasing his brow theatrically. “Must be out of their right mind.” 

They laughed together, and Harry felt warm. 

When Head Auror Robards entered the room, everyone fell silent. He wasn’t an intimidating man, but he was by far one of the best Aurors Harry had ever worked with in his life. He commanded impressive respect over his subordinates, and rightfully so. Even Seamus, who always hunched over like some sort of wild animal, straightened his back and sat tall against the chair. Harry did the same. 

There weren’t many people in the room, Harry noticed. Only one half of the table was occupied. Across from him, Seamus, and Ron sat Parvati Patil and Sybil Delaney. They weren’t partners either, from what Harry knew — how strange. 

Shacklebolt cleared his throat into the silence, and if it was even possible, everyone straightened up a little more. 

“Hi all,” Hermione said, stepping forward and smoothing down the creases of her smart navy blue robes. “We gathered you here today to work on a specific case, and it will be completely up to your discretion if you want to participate or not. As I’m sure you already know, the incidence of crime in our world routinely drops during the summer months. It has been increasing steadily in one sector — the trafficking of illegal potions has been more prevalent than ever before.” 

Robards stood from his chair, and Hermione stepped to the side to allow him room at the table’s head. 

“It is important we understand the extent to which these potions have circulated within our world. It is unclear, as of now, who the dealers and suppliers are. These are the early days, and we must take advantage of that.” Robards flicked his wand, and disillusioned files made themselves known on the table before them. Ron opened the file eagerly, but Harry couldn’t place the terrible feeling in his chest.

When he opened the folder, his heart swooped to his stomach. 

“Imperioserum is a highly dangerous substance. It is one of the worst we have seen in Ministry history. It is extremely potent — only a few drops can render a victim entirely controlled by someone else,” Hermione asserted, holding the file close to her chest protectively. 

_A few drops will do_. 

“It is, essentially, a bottled Imperius Curse.” Shacklebolt moved forward with quiet authority. “One can understand why, if possessed by the wrong hands, this substance could wreak havoc on our community.” 

Harry swallowed, feeling his pulse pick up in his neck. He tapped at the floor silently with his foot, willing his leg to stop moving. But guilt flooded into him like water spilling from a collapsed dam, and he felt his hands go clammy and sticky. 

“Imperioserum is a suggestibility potion. While its effects are not as extreme as those of the Imperius Curse, one can still utilise it to control the desired subject. You cannot necessarily order someone to do something for you, but the potion amplifies instructions in the user’s mind, who then fixates on them until the task is complete. Long-term use is likely to cause erratic and paranoid behavior in dosed individuals, though we still do not know if there are other side effects,” Hermione said, her voice grave. “There is extensive information in your write-ups about this potion, and you are expected to brief yourselves in private, as it is too risky to do so within the Ministry at the time. None of this information should be shared with anyone outside of this room. We must keep this as quiet as possible until we are absolutely sure the situation is under control.” She looked to the group in question. 

Everyone nodded their heads in affirmation, but Harry found his face burning with hot shame. He hoped he wore a better poker face than usual. He flicked his gaze down to the packet’s front page, a grainy photo of a translucent blue vial shimmering across the surface. It was passed between the hands of two black-robed wizards. 

A heavy tension settled over Harry’s head like a cloud as he and the rest of the room came to terms with what was at stake. Failure to solve this case could mean another war, another Voldemort. 

Robards stood to attention. “Aurors Finnegan and Patil, I have tasked you with infiltration. You will work undercover to access the buyers and lead us to target dealers. Auror Delaney, we’ve assigned you to work closely with Minister Shacklebolt and Ms Granger to control both public image and manage press reports on victims. Aurors Potter and Weasley, you will assist with research and location of the suppliers.” He paused. “That is unless any of you decline to participate.” 

No one moved to say so. Seamus’ eyes were hungry with excitement. Parvati was practically buzzing from across the table. Ron wouldn’t be happy that they’d been tasked with research, but he would keep his mouth shut because Hermione never wanted him to participate in dangerous undercover work anyway. 

Harry couldn’t do this. He knew that. 

Not only did there exist a massive conflict of interest, but Harry also couldn’t chance anyone finding out about how badly he had messed up. He couldn’t necessarily bring up that he knew a potential supplier without drawing attention to himself either — which would make for an interesting turn in the case. 

There was nothing else clearer than the fact that he was completely and utterly screwed.

–––

Harry woke to music streaming cheerily through the wireless. Even though it had been months, he was still surprised to hear it going every morning. Draco woke earlier than him now, as if he were trying to prove a point — that people could, in fact, change.

Lyra stretched out a wing languidly, letting the cold chill of October settle over it. The owl knocked at the windowpane a couple times with her beak, the glass letting out noises of annoyance at her inquiry. 

She forced Harry to stand, shuffle over, and open the window so she could fly out. Only she didn’t. Instead, turning a disdainful eye, she preened against the autumn air as if to say, _that’s all, now you can go, thanks_. 

The sound of Draco singing from the kitchen beckoned Harry eagerly, and he made his way there to start the morning. Draco was spread out at the breakfast table, quill scribbling furiously at parchment, singing a Muggle pop song at the top of his lungs. Harry couldn’t suppress a laugh and was met with narrowed eyes.

“Something to say, dear?” Draco teased, raising an eyebrow in his direction. 

“Oh, not much, just admiring the talent.” Harry tipped his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and pointedly raked his eyes over his husband’s body. 

Draco had chosen a white dress shirt and classy grey trousers for the workday that accentuated the sharp and elegant lines of his body. His formal robes hung folded over the back of his chair. Draco craned his neck up to meet Harry’s lips when he approached. The perfect morning kiss.

“Your breath is abhorrent.” Draco wrinkled his nose, but there was a distinct fondness in his gaze. Just for that, Harry gave him another kiss, to which Draco protested loudly. 

Harry puffed out a laugh and set to preparing breakfast, something even a potion-dosed Draco did not care to do.

He appreciated some of their traditions, like doing the cooking, and hadn’t wanted to push the suggestions too far. And if Harry didn’t enjoy preparing their morning meal, there would be no way to sneak just a drop of potion into his husband’s tea. The benefits went both ways.

Harry did it quickly now, tipping the tiniest bit of liquid into the cup. As usual, it swirled into a deep Oxford blue before returning swiftly to its original state as if it had never been disturbed in the first place. 

Their relationship had been better than it had in years, and Harry had the dutiful seller at the apothecary to thank for that. He still hadn’t offered up any information on potential suppliers to the Ministry, because, well, that would be too dangerous.

And after a battle of wits between both sides of his psyche, Harry decided it was best to fix his marriage first before fixing the rest of the world. One could come after the other, and everything would be just fine. 

He sat at the table, sliding a plate of eggs across the way to Draco, who looked at them and back at Harry. 

“I’m starting to get used to this whole cayenne pepper on egg habit,” Draco said innocently, stealing a bit from Harry’s plate with his fork. 

That simple statement seemed to summarise the perfection of their last few months. 

When Harry left for work that morning, he was waved off with a kiss to the forehead and a feeling of unconditional warmth. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, almost like he was falling in love with Draco all over again. 

He entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a spring in his step. When Ron joined his side, he barely commented on it because it had become a regular occurrence. 

The first time Harry arrived at work looking cheerful, Ron had said, “You look like you’ve had sex for breakfast, Harry.” 

Harry had burned his tongue on black coffee, and hot liquid had scorched down the wrong side of his throat. Ron had smirked at him, just barely holding back an “I knew it” from his lips. Harry had wished he could explain why a happy and largely eventless morning with Draco was infinitely better than sex. 

He entered his office to find his partner missing and Ron occupying the desk across the room. His legs were stretched out over the desktop, and he was filing through papers in his hands, reading quickly and purposefully. 

“Oi, shoes off the desk. Proudfoot will wring me by the ears if she sees you!” Harry gave Ron a gentle shove, and he complied. 

“Morning!” Ron said cheerily. “Excited for another day of combing through painfully outdated files?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. 

It was something he’d gotten used to anyway after the Ministry had decided he was too valuable to risk in fieldwork, even on a critical case like this one. “You’d think they’d just give up on this now. Doesn’t seem like we’ll be having a breakthrough anytime soon.”

It was completely uncharacteristic of Harry to want to quit even the smallest of tasks, but his hands clammed up when anyone even mentioned the case. It was bad enough that he had used such a substance, but it was much worse that he’d been unable to stop. 

A part of the potion was almost addictive.

When Draco was nice and compliant, it validated Harry even more to continue his terribly unethical actions. Of course, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, but he was in too deep to stop. There was no telling how Draco would react without the potion, and the department had yet to see any users who had been dosed long term. So really, it was a better idea to keep him on it for his own sake. 

For now, Harry acted oblivious and happy, and was planning to enjoy the bliss for as long as he possibly could. There was time for all the problems later.

“You know how ‘Mione is.” Ron shrugged, thumbing uninterestedly through a page of what could only be yet another unhelpful document. “Now that she’s got her mind on this, she won’t be able to let it go until we’ve come up with something useful.” 

Harry looked down at his desk guiltily, unable to meet Ron’s eyes. It went unnoticed. 

It was only twenty minutes later when Proudfoot burst through the doors and demanded Ron relinquish her desk chair. Robards arrived a minute later, effectively ending the argument before it could come to blows.

“Good,” he grunted. “Thought you might both be here. There’s been an incident.”

Ron stood quickly and missed a satisfied glare from Proudfoot, who jumped into her seat possessively. 

They followed Robards into the hall and made their way to the boardroom when Harry glimpsed Hermione outside the door. 

His breath caught in his throat.

Maybe he could sneak off to the bathroom or pretend illness. What would Shacklebolt say if the Saviour of the wizarding world didn’t want to take part in what otherwise might have been the most compelling case of the decade? Harry knew if his heart were in it, things would pick up speed because he wanted them to. A part of him wished he could provide that for the potion victims and for the department, who wanted to solve it just as badly. 

Another part of him was just happy that he had his husband back. The one who loved him unconditionally and told him so. He wasn’t sure if, at this point, his moral compass could win out over something so wonderful. 

When Harry settled into his chair, nausea accompanied a quickening heart rate. Seamus and Parvati had been undercover for weeks, and he worried about what their absences at the table meant. Had something happened? Had they been hurt? 

“Before there are questions,” Robards began looking pointedly at Harry, Ron, and Delaney, who filled an insufficient number of chairs in the large room. “Auror Patil and Auror Finnegan are safe.” 

It was as though the room let out a collective breath. Even Hermione, who likely was privy to this information already, seemed happier that it was out in the air. Tangible, in a sense. 

“There has, unfortunately, been an incident involving Imperioserum. We know the last few weeks have been quiet. Delaney and Ms Granger have reported rare instances of use. If this substance is more widespread than we thought, it seems to be moving through different channels. It might be more present within quieter sectors of society than we initially hypothesised.” 

Harry didn’t have to ask to know what Robards meant. They were catching on to the fact that this wasn’t some black market item. It was easy to acquire and easier to administer within the home. 

Hermione stepped forward as Robards moved away, giving her command over the floor. “Early this morning, a victim was discovered in Diagon Alley.” Hermione flicked her wand, and files appeared on the table. 

Harry opened it, trying and failing to dissuade a tight knot from forming in his chest. He forced a deep breath before focusing his eyes on the report. 

_Pauline Marchand, 23, Deceased._ She was younger than Harry himself. 

“The body has been taken to St Mungo’s for autopsy and analysis,” Robards said. “She was found just outside of Gringotts with a dagger through her heart. The wound seems to be self-inflicted, but she was dosed with Imperioserium prior to her death. Delaney, Ms Granger will accompany you to St Mungo’s to examine the body.” 

Hermione barely glanced at Harry and Ron as she led Delaney from the room. Her mind was, rightfully, elsewhere. 

Robards relaxed a bit as Hermione left the room. Sometimes her presence could be more intimidating than the Minister himself. “Potter and Weasley, check out the crime scene. This could either be a random attack or a deliberate killing, and both options are equally alarming. A few witnesses and family members are there awaiting interviews.” 

When Harry and Ron touched down at the Apparition point set up by the DMLE, a crowd had already gathered. Hoots and hollers infiltrated Harry’s ears as passersby watched him approach the scene. He cringed inwardly, but Ron didn’t seem bothered by the spectacle they were causing. He’d gotten rather used to it, apparently. 

“I’ll check in with the patrol on duty and take a look at the scene. D’you want to start with the family?” Ron asked, jolting Harry from his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he said without thinking, knowing very well that he did _not_ want to talk to a dead woman’s family. 

Still, Harry approached the tent. As he entered, reality widened and stretched, and a large room came into focus. It was cosy and warm, but bare enough to be appropriate for the situation at hand. Witnesses were gathered to one side as a few Aurors jotted down notes with their quills. Harry stood at the entranceway awkwardly, unsure where to begin.

“Auror Potter, sir, Ms Marchand’s family is this way.” A kind-eyed Auror led him to the opposite side of the tent. It was quieter, and the air a little colder. There was less panic, but far more fear. “They’re just through here.” He pulled back the curtain and disappeared as Harry stepped through. 

An older gentleman sat on the couch, his hands clasped between those of a younger woman. They looked weary and tired, as though they’d been through something like this already. Harry felt guilt burn angrily through his chest. If only he had prioritised others over himself, this family might not have been here today. Harry didn’t know much about the situation, but this death — Pauline’s — was on him. 

A few preset charms to the tent had banished noise from the other room and the commotion outside. Silence and tension were laden thick in the air. 

“Hello,” Harry said cautiously, reaching out to greet the pair across the coffee table. He withdrew it hastily when neither of the two offered anything back. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said with an earnest and searing resolve, hoping the family would understand how truly he meant it. 

The older gentleman nodded his head in acknowledgement, but refused to meet Harry’s eyes. 

“I am Auror Potter, and I’ll need to —” 

“Pauline went to school with you, you know?” the woman interrupted, loosening her hand from the man’s tight grip. She ran a shaking hand through styled blonde hair. “She talked about you all the time. Sorted Hufflepuff, though, and was disappointed, of course, that she wouldn’t hang out with the famous Harry Potter. You Gryffindors always seemed to have classes with the Slytherins, and it pissed her off to no end. I went to Beauxbatons a few years before she left. I sometimes regretted that, you know. She was my little sister; she should’ve followed me, but she wanted to forge her own path. Always did.” 

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly, unsure of what to say. Usually, he was quite good at interacting with family members of the deceased, but something about this death felt foreign and personal at the same time. “I’m sorry to hear that. I wish I could’ve gotten to know her better during those days.”

“No, you don’t. You were busy,” the woman said, but there was no bitterness to it, just pragmatism. She hesitantly held her hand out for Harry. “I’m Capucine. This is my father, Alfred.” 

“Mr Marchand,” the man said stiffly and with a heavy French accent. Harry was startled when he spoke. 

“Mr Marchand,” Harry amended, and Capucine looked at him with silent thanks in her expression. “I have a few questions if you don’t mind. I understand you must want to be home, but it would be really helpful if I could learn a bit more about Pauline.” 

Mr Marchand winced at his youngest daughter’s name, and something twisted painfully in Harry’s chest. Capucine nodded, though, and Harry continued as his job required. 

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” 

Capucine blinked back a few tears before sitting straighter against the couch. “We firecalled this morning. I’ve been trying to contact her, to see her, for weeks now, but something was wrong. She wouldn’t come see me, and every time I asked her to, I could tell it was like she wanted to, but couldn’t. Something was holding her back.” 

Harry nodded, leaving silence to fill the room so that Capucine would keep talking. 

It was likely that whoever dosed Pauline suggested that she avoid her sister. Harry didn’t yet know what would happen if a victim was given a direct demand and then attempted to defy it. 

“When I called her, I asked her to come home. To stay with me for a while. She said she couldn’t, and when I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me. We lost our mother in the war. Pauline and she were very close, and ever since then, she’s been a little different. But she was trying; she really was, to turn things around. She was mixed up in terrible things, but this past year has been better.” 

“She would never kill herself,” Mr. Marchand spoke gruffly, and his voice seemed to startle Capucine and Harry. 

Harry nodded, noting his words down on a square of parchment. He released the quill and parchment back in the air, where they continued transcribing the interview. 

“So, her state of mind was different in the most recent weeks, then?” Harry said, directing his question at Capucine. 

“Yes, it was vastly different. It was almost like something was controlling her.” 

The interview continued like that for a while. Both of Pauline’s family members insisted she would never have done something like this. And while Harry wanted to believe them, he also knew that there was always more to a situation than what meets the eye.

He sent the family to the Apparition point and set out to meet Ron. The Auror from earlier gave him an eager salute as he exited, and Harry did everything in his power to hold back an imminent eye-roll. 

“Something’s wrong here,” Ron said, walking up to meet Harry at the entrance. 

“Her sister seems to think this wasn’t an accident. Apparently, she would never do something like this.” 

Ron nodded knowingly at that statement; they had heard it far too many times in their line of work. He led Harry to the scene where the brick pavement was stained an unpleasant crimson. He supposed they should probably clean it soon; flashes of light from passersby indicated that many were taking photos. 

“According to witness reports, she did it right here in front of everyone. Floo’d directly into the Gringotts lobby, walked outside, and then it happened.” Ron eyed the scene warily as wrinkles creased his forehead.

Harry wondered if Draco had seen her that morning.

“This wasn’t an accident,” Harry said somewhat reluctantly, and Ron hummed in agreement. 

It was his duty to solve this case for the sake of the Marchand family, but he knew every break in their investigation would lead one step back to him. He wondered how long this could go on for. How long he could continue lying to the people around him and the profession he pledged himself to. 

When Harry returned home that evening, he could barely bring himself to the door. Instead, he leaned his briefcase on the white fence and knelt in the front garden. His uniform robes dirtied a bit at the knees, so Harry sat cross-legged in the soil instead. He gazed at the newly sprouted sunflowers, admiring the curve of their stalk and turmeric yellow of their petals. Fantastic creatures, sunflowers were. 

When Harry felt someone sit down next to him, he could hardly believe it was Draco before his eyes met piercing grey.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re sitting in the dirt,” Harry pointed out, rather unhelpfully. 

“So are you.” Draco leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, a decidedly uncharacteristic gesture for him. In moments like that, Harry noticed how much the new Draco was not the one he had married. It shocked him out of temporary peace, almost like being plunged directly into icy cold water. 

Harry looked at the man next to him, his gaze turning cold at a familiar face wearing an unfamiliar expression.

It wasn’t that he wanted to dislike this Draco; after all, Harry had made him this way on purpose. But it was painful to know the potion itself had run down some of his husband’s most telling quirks and personality traits. 

His Draco would never sit in the dirt; he’d never want to muddy up his nice clothing. Harry would tease him about being too uptight and insist he sit down anyway. And then Draco would comply but would sigh the entire time dramatically. 

It was those kinds of moments that Harry lost out on entirely, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to let them go just yet. 

“Hard day?” Draco spoke again, his cheek pressed firmly into the curve of Harry’s collarbone. So uncharacteristic. 

“Yeah, we had a particularly tough case today.” Harry knew he couldn’t divulge information about the case at all, but Draco wouldn’t ask anyway. He never did out of respect for confidentiality. 

“What kind of case?” Draco asked. 

Harry let his eyes fall to Draco’s hand, where it was stationed gently on his thigh. 

It was entirely wrong. 

Draco would never ask him about a case; he knew not to. He knew that Harry would break confidentiality any day to let his husband in on exciting information, which was precisely why Draco refused to pry. He wasn’t necessarily rule-oriented but knew that Harry would do anything he asked and then feel bad about it later. 

This Draco was not his, and it was becoming clearer by the day.

“Ginny and Pansy are coming over for dinner tonight,” Draco said, moving to stand once Harry had gone quiet. He reached a hand out, which Harry took. They stood, and Harry brushed stray wood chips from the side of his trousers. 

It had been a while since they’d had guests over for anything other than a strictly planned birthday celebration.

Harry knew things had been better, and the majority of their friends had noticed that. He’d only seen Ginny in passing, but she’d neglected to ask him about the state of his relationship — which was pleasantly surprising. 

It was rare that he envied other people, but she and Pansy were the picture-perfect couple amongst their group of friends. Only Ron and Hermione competed for that spot in the nauseatingly domestic haven they’d created. “The Burrow 2.0” was what Draco had called it, as though it were an insult. 

They’d all been a little suspicious about the quick turn, but it was hard for anyone to find any obvious fault in their relationship anymore. Harry supposed there really wasn’t one. But something about new Draco put him on edge. He wasn’t comfortable at all with the way things had been, but he certainly wasn’t satisfied with them now either. 

Once inside, Draco brought apples from the garden and used small quick movements to slice it with his wand. He would bake them in cinnamon and serve them with cream for dessert. Harry always found the dish too simplistic and never sweet enough for his taste. He preferred something heartier, like a chocolate cake or treacle tart. 

Harry, on a separate countertop, prepared a roast chicken with clementines from the garden. They always found excuses to incorporate the things they had grown into the meals they ate. 

Harry found something comforting in the cyclical nature of it all. 

“You never told me about that case,” Draco said, pausing his humming to the music playing over the wireless. It was something tuneless and a little boring, but Harry didn’t mind the background noise. 

Harry turned a clementine on its side, cutting thin slices. “I can’t talk about it much.” 

Draco huffed. “I’m trying to make conversation and learn more about your work. The least you could do is put some effort into it too.” There was no malice laced into the words, but rather a desperation. Almost like if he couldn’t accomplish his task, something would go horribly wrong. Harry stared, a little shocked by the reality of their situation. He could sense how dangerous something like this could be in the wrong hands, with the wrong commands. 

He realised he could probably ask Draco to do anything for him. And Draco would do it without hesitation. 

The power Harry held was inconceivable. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Harry said, pressing at his temples as though it would steady the information building uncomfortably in his head. “I really can’t talk about it, though. Ministry business and all. Tell me a little about your day instead?” 

The moment Draco opened his mouth in reply, a sharp knuckle rapped at the door. 

Draco made for the door, and Harry put the roast in the oven. The chicken would be done in thirty minutes, and there would be a perfect char on the fruits. One thing Harry could rely on himself for was excellent cooking. 

Something shifted in Harry that he couldn’t qualify when he heard voices from the door. The idea of entertaining guests remained unappealing to him as they made their presence known in the kitchen. A weight hung in his stomach like a stone. His Draco was nothing more than the unfortunate result of a pseudo-Imperius Curse, and nothing could change that. But Harry couldn’t go back to the way things were. 

Pansy reached her arms out encouragingly, and Harry settled into them. “Hi, Pans.” 

“Darling, you look dreadful.” She smoothed down an unkempt strand of hair on the side of Harry’s head. 

“I feel dreadful,” he mumbled.

He had always been unable to hide his emotions from Pansy, so he didn’t bother much with it anymore. If he had said he was fine, Pansy would’ve smacked him decidedly across the head until he revealed the truth. She could always see through him like he was as transparent as a pane of glass. Harry felt bare and uncomfortable in her presence, but he also welcomed her company. It was nice to know that she knew the real him and not the million other versions that existed to the rest of the world.

Still, he wouldn’t qualify them as best friends. The past thirteen years had taught him that Hermione and Ron filled those slots, even if they were a little too busy with their own lives to remember sometimes. 

“We can talk about that later. Just you and me.” She winked, and Harry smiled a genuine one that exposed the crow’s feet of his eyes. 

“Next week?” he asked hopefully, eager to solidify plans before they forgot about them entirely. He hadn’t seen her in months, since Draco’s birthday, really. 

“Next week, I’ll have lunch with you at the office,” she agreed, wrapping an arm possessively around Harry’s waist. He felt comforted by the press of her long fingers into his side. 

Draco was sitting Ginny down at the table, pouring out a bottle of wine into four stemmed glasses. He looked up for a moment, and the tug of a smile at the corner of his lips sent Harry’s heart reeling. 

“Hands to yourself, Ms Parkinson,” he tutted, mischief glinting in his eyes. “That one’s taken.” 

Harry felt himself light up at the statement. He’d always loved a possessive man, but Draco was always another level. It was comforting and painfully arousing, to see him eye Pansy’s touch like a personal challenge. 

“Oh _please_ , Draco.” Pansy threw her head back in light laughter. “Harry would come running to me if I asked.” 

They both fixed their gazes on Harry, who shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “I will not be getting involved in this.” 

He reached down to give Ginny a one-armed hug from her seat at the table. He slid into the one next to her, the one Draco usually occupied every morning. Draco’s eyes narrowed from across the table, but he didn’t say anything. Almost as if the potion was reigning him in. He wondered if Draco could feel it or remained blissfully unaware. Harry hoped the latter was true.

“Chicken will be ready in thirty. You don’t mind waiting?” he asked the table. 

Hums of agreement indicated that nobody minded. Harry swirled his glass around, taking an experimental sip of the Sauvignon Blanc that Draco had chosen. It was good and tasted a little citrusy. Of course, Draco had chosen a wine to pair well with the meal. Harry, probably, would have accidentally selected a red. 

“So,” Ginny said into the silence, her features tight as though she held something back.

“Now, Ginny, don’t start this already!” Pansy began, flashing her eyes warningly. “We’ve only just arrived.” 

Draco shook his head in amusement. “It’s honestly fine. She’s badgered me every day for the past few weeks.” 

“Am I missing something here?” Harry asked suspiciously, taking a slow sip of wine. He felt horribly out of the loop and hoped embarrassment at the fact wasn’t making its presence known on his features. 

Silence in the kitchen was deafening as the three others at the table debated who would fill Harry in. 

“I mean, I had no intention of bringing this up,” Pansy said sharply, turning a blaming eye on Ginny, who waved her away with a hand. “But seeing as my lovely girlfriend has taken it upon herself to stick her nose into places it does not belong, I guess I’ll concede. Ginny, so eloquently, is wondering how you and Draco have managed to repair your relationship. I, on the other hand, am just fine in the dark. This is hardly an appropriate dinner conversation.” 

Draco only chuckled. “It’s not an unfair question.” But he looked at Harry as though he was incapable of answering himself. Maybe the potion wouldn’t let him. 

“I mean, I don’t mean to pry,” Ginny said, even though she absolutely, unequivocally did mean to pry. “I just know that one day Draco was about to move in with us, and the next, things were fine.” 

Harry knew the look in Ginny’s eyes. He had dated her fleetingly but had spent hours observing her during the time. Her inquisitivity was never genuinely innocent; rather, it was coated in a layer of suspicion and distrust. 

Harry didn’t have to look at her to notice how heavy her gaze sat on himself, as though she wanted to force a confession out of him. Ginny always noticed things, and Harry hadn’t accounted for the fact that she and Draco had been close for years. She knew him, often better than anyone else. 

She was never a malicious girl; she was bright and full of warmth. Pansy loved her because they were equally as brilliant, though in entirely different ways. She would do what it took to keep the people she loved safe, and honestly, Harry admired her for that, even if it might eventually factor into his downfall. 

Harry knew if he was going to stave off any concerns, now was the time to do it. If Ginny caught on to anything, even the slightest of details, she would turn into a hunting hound. And she wouldn’t stop until her prey was situated securely between her teeth. 

He decided that a half-truth would have to suffice. “We did argue that night. It was probably one of the worst fights we’ve ever had.” Harry swallowed dryly, feeling his throat close at the honesty of his statement. “And we knew that things couldn’t go on the way they were, and decided to make a change.” Harry held his breath, hoping that would satisfy. 

“So, what? You both just woke up the next day and decided to be nicer, which fixed everything?” Ginny asked, her voice bordering on incredulous. When put like that, Harry spared no wonder as to why she was disbelieving in the first place. 

“That’s _exactly_ what happened,” Draco said suddenly, and there was a small wonder on his face. Surprise, maybe, at the fact that he hadn’t realised how they’d gotten over their argument at all. 

Harry knew that couldn’t be good, and he was bordering on nauseous by the time Pansy decided she was ready to dive into a different conversation. 

A Muggle timer pinged from the countertop, and Harry excused himself to tend to the chicken. With his back turned to his guests at the table, he closed his eyes and forced a deep breath. His panic wasn’t necessarily laden under Draco’s sudden realisation; it was more so directed at Ginny herself, who remained unsatisfied by their answer. Her worries had been quelled temporarily, but what happened when Draco said something or did something entirely out of character? Like, sit in the dirt, for instance. An action so simple, yet so telling.

Only moments later, Harry was floating four heaped plates of chicken and clementines over to the dinner table. Draco practically had hearts in his eyes at the sight of Harry’s domesticity — which was new. 

The conversation was punctuated by distinct groans of pleasure from everyone at the table. Harry knew he was a good cook, even great at times, but the dish had turned out remarkably well. Draco gazed at Harry with a glowing fondness in his eyes. It made his stomach twist and turn at the sight, and he felt warm all over. Still, that feeling was overcome by a wave of despair at the fact that it wasn’t real. Sometimes it was easy to pretend it was, and other times it was painfully hard. 

Pansy swallowed a bite of food, before dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. She’d always eaten so politely, just like Draco. Harry and Ginny, on the other hand, ate like Weasleys — joyously and brazenly. 

The couple left soon after dinner with stomachs full of apples, cinnamon, and wine. They exited the cottage with their hands intertwined with each other, and Harry watched them Apparate from just a hair’s length past the fence. He sat down on the steps, giving himself a moment to himself. 

Draco joined him minutes later, wrapping one of Molly’s knit blankets over Harry’s shoulders. 

“It’s cold out here,” he said conversationally, even though it was clear Harry was in no mood to talk. 

“I miss the summer. My plants grew better then.” 

“We have the stasis charms set for a reason. Maybe you can ask Neville if there’s something more to be done here. We can even recast some of the charms in the morning if it’s worrying you.” 

Harry hated how absolutely reasonable Draco sounded.

It was so atypical that it almost nauseated him. His husband adored the poetry behind dramatic behavior and heavy sarcasm. It was almost sacrilege to see him act in any other way. The man sitting next to him could have been any nice-enough bloke from off the street corner; it would never be the person Harry wanted it to be. Was that person long gone? He didn’t know. 

“When did things go so wrong with us?” Harry questioned, mostly to the chill of night in front of him. Draco shifted, and the wooden steps released a bothered creak. Harry enveloped Draco in the blanket, noticing the slight shake of his shoulders in the cold. 

“Do you want the truth?” Draco asked, and something in his grey eyes communicated to Harry that he would get it. Harry nodded in response, wondering if the potion was going to answer, or Draco himself. 

“After the war, when we could finally be together, we rushed things. I know everyone says that jokingly, we moved fast and didn’t take a breath. I used to laugh at it because it was so precisely something we would do. Jump in headfirst without really considering anything else.” He paused, meeting Harry’s eyes, and then staring down at their intertwined fingers. “I was so alone after everything, as I suspect you were too. My parents lived. I’m grateful for that. I know the same can’t be said for so many others. But they were all I had, and then my mother fucked off to a faraway country to escape all this. And my father, who was supposed to be rotting in a cell for the rest of eternity, staged a breakout and disappeared. I don’t blame them, but I felt even more alone than during the war. I went from being smothered with attention and demands to absolutely nothing.” 

“I know,” Harry said because he did. 

He understood more than anyone the loneliness that came when choice was abundant. It was more suffocating than one might expect. 

“I’m not saying this happened only because we were lonely. We married because there was nothing else left for us to do. We’re meant for each other, Harry. We always have been. But sometimes the things you love most will turn around and hurt you still.” 

Harry swallowed back a hard lump in his throat because Draco couldn’t begin to understand the weight of his own words. 

Years ago, when they had spoken their vows, Harry pledged to love and protect Draco until he died. He never knew at that time that the person Draco would need protecting from was Harry himself. 

“But look where we are now. Everything is just fine. We don’t need to dredge up the past, and you don’t need to come out and mope on the stairs every evening before you can bear to enter our house again. You can talk to me next time.” 

Harry wished from the furthest reaches of his soul that he could. He felt the words, the truth, come, and almost cast them out into the peaceful silence of the evening. Instead, he shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and walked back inside.

–––

Draco was sweating profusely by the time he was finished. He clutched the side of the fence and steadied himself against the white wood, hoping he wasn’t panting unattractively. Beside him, Harry was the picture of calm.

“How the fuck do you do this every day?” Draco asked, bending down to tie his trainers. He ended up sitting down for a rest anyway, cross-legged on the concrete pavement. 

“We always have to be in shape because of the fitness retests.” Harry reached out a hand, which Draco grasped reluctantly. He groaned at the pressure between his joints as he heaved himself onto sore legs. 

Somehow, Harry had convinced him to go on a morning run, followed by a quick ab workout. Draco was not spending his Saturday curled up on the couch with a book and his owl, so he figured the day was already ruined. 

When he thought about it, though, Harry hadn’t necessarily convinced him. He’d offered, and the annoying tic at the back of Draco’s mind had actively forced him to go unless he wanted to sit at home with a splitting headache.

In recent days, Draco made his decisions based on his head-demon, which he had named with a vengeance. 

The head-demon hadn’t been causing much trouble since the bedroom incident, but it had been acting up frequently enough that Draco had taken himself to a Healer. He had worried he had a brain tumour or something of the sort but was sent home with clear scans and a damn pat on the back. 

He was beginning to think his subconscious was having a midlife crisis instead, and there was nothing else to do but wait it out. 

Draco leaned in and kissed Harry. 

It wasn’t something he would usually do, but the voice in his head insisted on physical affection. So Draco supposed it was he who cared about physical affection too. After all, whatever voice resided in his head had to be his own. 

Once the Healer had dismissed any theories about a hex or physical ailment, the next step was the Janus Thickey Ward, so Draco had just walked out with his back to the door. 

Harry ruffled at his hair affectionately, to which Draco gave a small yelp. 

“Hey!” 

“It’s all messed up anyway from the run,” Harry pointed out. 

“Oh, you take that back,” Draco growled, but it was all good fun. He wasn’t sure when the last time sunshine had shone down upon their relationship like this. 

He launched himself at Harry with a driving force, tackling him into the overgrown grass of their front lawn. They lay still for a moment before Draco nuzzled gently into Harry’s neck. 

_Kiss him._

“I was going to already,” Draco muttered. 

“What’s that?” 

“Nothing,” Draco said, silencing Harry with his lips. 

After a moment, they broke apart. Draco leaned into the soft grass on his back, feeling more comfortable than he’d ever been. 

Maybe the voice was doing something good for him. In his previous life, he would have never indulged Harry in weekend exercise or played around with him like they were doing now. They’d done those things in the beginning, of course, but they wore off and disappeared alongside the honeymoon phase. It was nice to feel like they were just children again, but they had each other this time. 

Draco could tell Harry was happier. He could even tell the people around them were more pleased that they’d finally worked things through. By some miracle of God, everything was better than it had been in a while. 

Harry dragged him inside, and Draco protested the whole way until he was thrown unceremoniously into bed. 

“You really have no regard for my hair, do you?” He teased, lifting Harry’s shirt over his head. He admired how rippled and smooth his husband’s muscles looked with the sheen of post-workout sweat. 

Draco found himself growing hot and uncomfortable in his clothing. Harry assisted him in removing his athletic shorts with just the movement of one hand. 

Harry eyed him greedily. “Naughty, you are. No pants?” 

Draco shook his head, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I forgot them.” 

“Like hell you did,” Harry growled, turning Draco on his stomach and spreading his cheeks apart. 

He felt a wet heat press against his hole, and he let out a slow whine. 

He never lasted long when Harry prepped him like this. He groaned heavily into the pillow when Harry’s tongue licked back and forth over him before pressing just the slightest bit inside. Draco instinctively spread his legs further, pushing back into the touch. He cried out when Harry’s tongue left him, but was flushed with a hot sensation as he felt two lube-covered fingers press inside of him. 

“Harry, please,” he whimpered, gasping thinly into the sheets below him. His hands curled into the comforter for support as fingers moved in and out with rhythm. 

“I want to take it slowly,” Harry whispered, coming up to nip lightly at Draco’s neck. 

Draco felt desperate and open, and the desire to be filled up with the entirety of Harry was almost overwhelming. He lost himself entirely in the sensations sometimes. 

Before he could register it, large hands moved him over onto his back and reached for his hips. Harry bent down with a wild look in his eyes and swallowed Draco to his base, nose pressing close to his stomach and into a small tuft of hair. 

“Oh, fuck,” Draco groaned, throwing one free hand over his forehead, and the other curled tightly into Harry’s tangle of dark hair. “Yes, oh, Merlin.” 

Swears littered Draco’s lips as Harry took him, sliding his tongue up and down Draco’s shaft. He paused at the tip, licking slowly down and never breaking eye contact from Draco in the process. He felt his cock hit the back of Harry’s throat, but Harry didn’t move away. Instead, he went back for more eagerly, responding to the little noises Draco made in response, his cheeks hollowed as he groaned through the movements. 

“I need you, Harry,” Draco said, unable to stop his hips from snapping up and down and fucking slowly into Harry’s warm mouth. “I want you.” 

“I’m all yours,” Harry said, and Draco thought he could just come right then and there. 

Harry eased a third finger into him, and Draco gasped at the intermingling of pain and pleasure. He writhed under Harry, who steadied him with a hand on his stomach and pumped his fingers in roughly. Draco still had his t-shirt on from before, and he was infinitely grateful for its presence. 

When Draco felt ready, he nodded at Harry encouragingly, who lined himself up at his entrance. He pushed in with a slow intensity that made Draco groan at the breach but lose himself in feeling at the same time. He felt wide and stretched, every nerve alight. 

“Move,” Draco commanded, but it sounded like a soft and pleading mewl. 

But Harry didn’t. He settled there and waited for Draco until he almost wanted to cry from desire, trailing his fingers up and down thighs that were wrapped around him like iron bars. 

“Please, I can’t take it,” Draco said, and he knew how hot and ready he was. His legs trembled from around Harry’s middle, but he wouldn’t ease them up until he was being fucked into properly. 

Harry seemed to realise this and began to move painstakingly slowly until he worked himself in and out. Draco cried out at the sensation. Quickly, Harry’s hips snapped forward, pulling all the way out and slamming back roughly inside of him. They moaned together at the way their bodies connected, and Draco struggled to keep his eyes open, if only just to see Harry’s sweaty and muscled figure completely devour his own. 

The only sounds in the room were of skin smacking together and Draco moaning unabashedly into every thrust. 

Draco draped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and felt kisses being pressed into the side of his neck. 

“Turn over,” Harry grunted, and Draco complied. “Oh Merlin, you look so good like this, you feel so good.” He groaned, and Draco spread his legs further in response. 

Only a moment later, he felt Harry push inside of him, filling him up until he was stuffed full. 

It came on quick, the wave of pleasure, and crested atop Draco as he rutted against the bed. 

“I’m gonna come,” Harry managed to get out, and he fucked Draco faster as if there was nothing more in the world he was meant to do other than this. 

It was over in a second, as Draco cried out and felt his release soak the bottom of his t-shirt. Moments later, Harry did the same and pulled himself gingerly out of Draco. 

“Holy shit,” Harry said, coming down to lie next to him. “Haven’t done that in a while.” 

“I missed it,” Draco said, allowing himself to be taken into Harry’s arms. 

_Tell him you love him._

“I love you,” Draco said. He meant it most of the time, but other times he said it to appease the voice inside of his head to which he had somehow become a slave. 

There was a time in which he’d fallen out of love with Harry during the summer. In recent months, he’d relearned what it felt like to care for his husband again. Still, he wasn’t sure he was completely ready to feel it yet at all. 

“Love you too,” Harry murmured, muttering a soft cleaning spell and pressing a kiss to Draco’s temple. Draco shivered at the charm’s intrusion into his body. “I really do.”

“I know you do.” 

It was hours later when Draco extracted himself from the tangle of Harry’s limbs. He wasn’t tired from their nap anymore and was sure he’d sleep poorly in the evening because of it. Previously, he might have blamed Harry. But he knew his mind would revolt if he was to do so and was exhausted by the anticipation of pain. Somehow, it had taken a particular liking and care for Harry himself, which was, well, intriguing. 

Draco made his way to the kitchen, careful to step lightly on the floorboards. Harry barely got any sleep anyway and deserved a few more hours of rest. 

Lyra had brought in the paper, which lay untouched on the countertop. Draco filled a glass of water for himself and nabbed a few plums from the fruit bowl. He settled at the table with his afternoon snack and opened the _Prophet_ to an arbitrary page. 

_Auror department gets involved as black market trading rates rise!_

Interesting, Draco mused. The photo itself was grainy and distorted, and pictured two wizards passing a few glass vials between exposed fingertips from beneath billowing robes. The action was quick and hard to catch before the photograph looped and restarted.

Lyra squawked from beside him, and he turned his attention away from the paper. They sometimes reported nonsense, and Draco didn’t have the time or energy to bother much with it anymore. Among their articles, it was hard to discern what was of real danger or merely political fodder. He trusted other news sources over one that’s viewpoint could be warped so easily. 

The thought made Draco consider _The Quibbler_ , and subsequently Luna. Maybe she’d know what to do about his peculiar situation. He had considered contacting Hermione before, but there was no doubt she would run to Harry and tell him all about it. 

The last thing Draco needed was another person breathing down his throat about something and demanding updates. He had resolved to deal with it by himself for his own peace of mind. 

Now Luna, though. That was a good option. She was equally close with both him and Harry, and if he asked her to keep his secret, there was no doubt she’d comply. She was much smarter than people gave her credit for and never involved herself in the petty dramas of real life. 

A large part of Draco regretted calling her Looney Lovegood along with everyone else in their younger years. She was always a bright witch; there was no doubt in that. He knew he needed someone’s help, and she seemed like one of the only viable options. 

“Lyra, come,” Draco said, and the owl hopped closer to him. 

He reached for some spare parchment on the table, and after locating a self-inking quill, scrawled out a quick note to Luna. He sent the owl off with a pat and a slice of plum as an incentive to deliver the message extra fast. As much as Lyra loved him, Draco figured she’d take her own sweet time as usual. 

Only a few moments passed. 

Then he grew impatient. He stalked over to the fireplace in the living room and stood over it for a moment. It would seem a little desperate to firecall in addition to sending an owl, but it wasn’t as though he had any alternative ideas. 

Draco crouched down in front of the blackened hearth and leaned his head in. His vision swam into place in an instant, and Luna’s eccentric home coalesced around him. 

“Luna!” he called out, half-hoping she wasn’t home to witness such a desperate display. 

He knew he was out of luck when the sounds of scuffling and a soft noise echoed from somewhere further in the house. 

“Draco,” she said, her voice ethereal and dreamlike. She had braided her hair down on one side of her shoulder, and small stars accessorised the length of blonde strands. In her arms, Luna’s silver one-eyed cat, Opal, was curled up. “Come through, if you’d like. I don’t have any company.” 

Draco stepped through almost immediately at the invitation, hoping Harry wouldn’t stir within the hour. At his intrusion, he knocked over a stack of _Quibblers_ piled high next to Luna’s fireplace. He proceeded to apologise, but Luna was already placing them carefully back together with her wand. 

“What brings you here today, Draco?” she asked gently, indicating for him to sit. He complied. She flicked her wand, and a tray of tea and biscuits emerged from the hallway almost as if it had been pre-prepared. 

“Did you know I was coming? Did you receive my owl?” 

“No, but I assumed you would eventually,” she said mildly, returning her attention to Opal, who mewled blithely against the cotton jumper. 

Draco blinked, letting a blank expression rest on his face. The woman was a total enigma. 

“So?” Luna prompted, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. 

“So,” Draco said awkwardly, adjusting himself on the sofa. “I have a small predicament. Well, I’m not sure if ‘predicament’ is the right word.” 

Draco stared down at his hands, guiltily, wondering if he was making the right decision. It was clear now that something was going wrong in his head, and because a Healer hadn’t been able to figure out what was going on, Luna was his next best option. It would be foolish to write her off completely. She was utterly mad at times, but a Ravenclaw for a reason. 

He reminded himself of that as he began to explain his situation. 

“I’ve been having trouble with some voices in my head,” he said a little quickly, before catching his tongue between his teeth to stop the words. 

Luna seemed unbothered by the thought. “Naturally, one will argue with the voices in their head ever so often. That is nothing to worry about, Draco,” she said as though speaking to a small child. She presented as very maternal in the moment too.

Draco thought of his mother sitting in the Manor’s sunroom on any given Saturday morning with her Kneazle splayed out in her lap as she sipped gently at a steaming cup of English Breakfast. Narcissa was quite like Luna in that way. Introspective, insightful, and a lover of animals. 

“It’s not _just_ that,” Draco said, uncomfortable. “I can’t control them.”

“Well, naturally, you can’t control —” 

“No, I know. Luna, I can’t _disobey_ them,” Draco murmured as though he was releasing a closely kept secret into the confines of Luna’s home. 

“Oh,” she said, her expression growing thoughtful. “I’m not sure what to make of that.”

“I’m not sure, either.” Draco sighed, pressing a hand to throbbing temples. He felt around for any ghost of pain leftover from the routine headaches, but couldn’t find much there. Flinching at the thought, he pulled his fingers away. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Luna edged closer to him, and Opal leaned out to press a soft paw against the fabric of Draco’s trousers. Something about the warm touch was familiar. It felt more like home than his own. 

“I must have something around here that can help.” She gave him a knowing smile, and something settled down in his stomach. Luna always had that effect on him. “In the meantime, maybe you should try meditation?” 

He considered it for a second but shoved the idea away. If Draco was to spend even a moment alone with the thoughts inside of his head, he might truly go mad after all. 

“Maybe,” he mused, to placate her. “I just don’t know what’s causing all of this, and it’s making me nervous.” 

Luna, used to his honesty, merely shrugged. “Are you sure something _is_ actually causing it? As far as you know, this could be something subconscious. You may be more tuned into your innate desires than you realise.” 

Opal leaped from the hollow of Luna’s lap and stretched idly against the carpeted floors. The soft thud of noise that accompanied her meeting with the ground startled Draco. He looked down at his hands, nervously, feeling as though a schoolteacher was scolding him. 

“I considered that,” he admitted guiltily. 

“And you discounted it quickly, I presume.” She blinked, long ethereal lashes reaching out delicately over the blue of her eyes. 

Draco shrugged, feeling tension ease out of his shoulders as he confessed a small part of his worst fear. “I don’t necessarily want to believe that’s true.” 

“You don’t want to be in touch with yourself? Many people would want that.” 

“I don’t want my subconscious controlling what I do, though. I daresay it’s not as morally developed as I am.” 

Luna nodded. “I suppose you’re right. When you think about it, your subconscious is just an expression of your deepest and darkest desires. Your conscious mind decides to either reward the subconscious and give it what it wants or ignore it and keep it at bay.” 

“Okay,” Draco said slowly, processing the information. 

“So maybe you’ve been holding your subconscious back for too long. Maybe it wants you to reward it.”

Draco turned the thought over in his head a few times before fiddling with his fingers — a stupid habit he’d picked up from Harry. 

“That’s not a bad theory. It would account for a lot.” Draco paused, chancing a look up at Luna. She met his gaze, and her mouth arranged itself into a warm smile. 

“Draco, you came to my home already flustered and upset by this, but has it done you any harm? Maybe you’re finally thinking for yourself for once and not doing what everyone expects of you. I don’t think that’s so bad.” 

Draco considered it for a moment and supposed she must be right. But, he reminded himself, the damned voice had, in fact, done harm. It had held him at the brink of terror, and then Harry had pulled him back from it. What if Harry hadn’t realised in time? What if he didn’t care and kept going? Nothing quite so terrifying had happened since, and Draco hadn’t wanted to push the bounds of their nighttime activities anyway, but he knew he never wanted _that_.

On the other hand, maybe the voice was trying to help him overcome a debilitating and, frankly, embarrassing fear. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all. Draco took a breath; everything was still.

“You’re probably right. I’m sorry I got all worked up about it. I’ve been feeling very different these past few days and wasn’t sure who to go to,” he said, holding a hand out for Luna. She took it eagerly and squeezed it like a mother would to console an agitated child. 

She shook her head in amusement. “Please don’t apologise. You know you’re always welcome here!” 

If he weren’t actively attempting to hold himself together, his legs would have shaken at her kindness. 

After exchanging pleasantries and an affectionate hug, Draco stepped through the fireplace and back into the familiar emptiness of his own sitting room. 

A porcelain teacup sat lonely on the coffee table, and Harry’s books scattered in a display across its surface. Clearly, he had spent the latter portion of the afternoon working through a new stack. For someone so uninterested in his studies at school, Draco wondered how Harry managed to sit through the monotony of Muggle nonfiction.

The room smelled like oak trees and sweat, which was so distinctly Harry that Draco smiled where he usually would have frowned. 

“Harry?” he called into the emptiness, feeling immense and unfamiliar relief when footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond the sitting room. 

“Hullo,” Harry said, low and gruff as though he’d only just woken. Draco knew all too well that his sleep voice stuck around for a while longer after he’d been in bed. A smile flickered across his features, and he practically lit up from across the room. 

When they were younger, Draco might have dropped his things right there and ran into Harry with the force of a wild Bludger, all for the sweet relief of an embrace. Now, he merely walked over and kissed Harry at the corner where the skin of his forehead met his eyebrow. 

“You went out,” he stated, and the tone was a little more accusing than Draco would’ve liked. 

Something had changed in the time that he’d been gone. Draco couldn’t quite place it, but this Harry was different in some way. 

Draco stiffened but attempted to maintain a calm composure. “Indeed.” There was no need to fight. 

“Where were you?” Harry asked, his knuckles going shockingly colourless, where he gripped his fists into balls.

“Luna’s,” Draco replied honestly. There wasn’t any significant use in hiding it; it would be easier to maintain a lie if it was a technical truth. Had Severus told him that? Maybe it was his mother. He couldn’t be bothered to remember. 

“You didn’t tell me you were going out. Why were you there?” Harry asked, and there was a glint of something in his eyes that Draco couldn’t quite identify. The hairs on the backs of his arms crept upright in response. He shivered, and the room felt a notch colder than it had when he had arrived. 

_Tell him._

The voice said it softly, a gentle push, and Draco strained against it cockily. He demanded it to be quiet, but the weight of its command sank into the deepest reaches of his head. The pain wasn’t there yet, but Draco knew it would come if he held out for much longer. A part of him always wanted to give in to the satisfying relief. 

But he couldn’t tell Harry. Not yet. 

Draco sucked in a breath, but it was thin and hollow like he hadn’t taken in enough oxygen to make it worthwhile. “We were just talking,” he said, fidgeting in place and presenting Harry with a well-practiced technical truth. Draco’s eyes darted around the stretch of the room, feeling like an animal caged in by a predator with no escape in sight. 

He wasn’t sure when Harry had started making him feel so inhuman. 

Harry narrowed his eyes, searching Draco’s own for the answer he wanted. 

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked, voice wavering. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Something’s different. You’re different,” Draco stated, working to keep panic from seeping into his tone. His attempt was half-hearted, though, and it was apparent he was worried, terrified, of the person in front of him. Instincts on high alert, Draco desired to put the utmost amount of space between his husband and himself. 

“Nothing’s different.” 

“No, something is. I’m not stupid.” 

“I never said you were —” 

“Harry, you act like I’m an idiot —” 

“Sometimes, you are a fucking idiot!” Harry sneered, his lip curling. 

Draco shoved him hard. Harder than he’d intended. Harry didn’t falter much and caught himself after a few tripped steps. His gaze blackened, and Draco’s mouth went cold and dry. 

He knew what was going to happen before it did. 

Harry was on the verge of something big. He’d snap, Draco would startle, and something terrible would happen. He wasn’t quite sure why or how he knew, but he just did. 

A trickle of cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, making him shudder at the sensation. He took a step back, as though the space between them would widen and stretch into comforting and safe oblivion. 

Harry would be gone, and Draco would be alone. He hated himself for wishing it at all. 

“You’re a bad liar for a Slytherin,” Harry said, and there was something eerie and sinister in his tone that Draco took an immediate dislike to. 

It wasn’t often that Harry scared him, but something about his hungry gaze coupled with the shock of pain in Draco’s head would not bode well for either of them. 

“I-I’m not lying,” Draco managed, but his nerves were triumphing over level-headedness. 

Ordinarily, he could keep his cool during arguments. Still, with the impending and catastrophic horror of his subconscious looming over his shoulder, it was harder to hold himself together enough to give a good fight back. 

Their fights were usually screaming matches that ended with whoever could be the loudest. Something about the silent animosity characterising the room was more chilling. 

_Tell him._

The voice was angry now, insistent and unrelenting in its desire to force Draco’s hand. He fought it wordlessly with pleas of desperation, but the walls he’d slammed up in his mind were beginning to crumble to dust. They were never strong enough to hold it off entirely, but Draco was playing to buy time — not to win. 

_Tell him what you were doing._

A gust of wind from outside knocked a window shut behind him, and the room seemed to resize and contract into something smaller. Claustrophobic and dizzy, Draco took another step back, but a loud clang informed him that he’d hit a steel fire poker with the heel of his shoe. 

Harry had advanced, like a lion, high from the euphoria of the moment before a kill. Something unruly in his eyes told Draco that he’d already been beaten. 

_Now._

It shattered into his skull like a hammer colliding with a glass vase. Breaking Draco was easy and effortless. He registered that he was on his knees moments after it had already happened, and the world’s shapes swam before him in a haze of monochromatic colour. The blacks of the leather couch and the browns of wooden furniture and book spines blurred together into abstractness before his eyes. His head found the floor, and he leaned against it as a pounding sensation converged onto all parts of him. 

Harry had yelped, but Draco barely heard it. He felt hands touching his body, but he was far too hot to stand it, pulling away instinctively. Sharp feeling splintered through his forehead as though someone was exploring it with a blade.

Harry held him as he retched against the hearth, breakfast, and bile coming back up from the pit of his stomach. Draco felt tears wet his neck, but he couldn’t be sure if they were Harry’s or his own. 

Harry seemed to come back to himself in the time that passed. 

“Draco, you don’t have to tell me. I’m so sorry I asked,” Harry rasped, his carnivorous resolve broken. 

The pain cleared within seconds of Harry’s words, but it felt like long and aching minutes to Draco. His body had been folded in half by the strength of Harry’s forearm to his chest. Looking at his sick was making something disturbing bubble up in his stomach, but he couldn’t summon the energy to Vanish it just yet. 

“Will you —” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, wandlessly Vanishing the mess from the rug. 

Harry muttered something unintelligible, and the air around him smelled lemony and fresh like cleaning product. Draco’s mouth was dry and cracked when he put his lips back together. 

“I’m so sorry,” he groaned, weight heavy against Harry. He should have just told the truth. Damn Severus and his mother for relying on shortcuts. 

“Please don’t be sorry. This is all my fault.” Harry heaved him up easily into his arms, guiding them to the bedroom where he laid Draco out on the bed. 

“S’not your fault,” Draco slurred, his head lolling to the side. He couldn’t muster the strength to keep it upright just yet. His head throbbed with a phantom pain from before. He’d rather be _Crucio-ed_ to death than experience it once more. 

Harry looked guilty, but Draco only closed his eyes at the sight. He couldn’t be sure why Harry had tried to take the blame for this, but then again, he always did. The world’s Saviour. Draco’s too. 

“It is, though,” Harry murmured, wringing his hands.

“What’s that?” Draco asked, his mouth slack and soft against the bedsheets. Consciousness slipped from his grasp before he could hold onto it, and the welcoming arms of sleep outstretched to pull him under. 

“Nothing.” 

The room went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Pauline Marchand’s face was all sharp angles. 

Nothing about the photo in front of Harry was soft or angelic, like many of her friends had described her when the department had interviewed them. One had noted she had particularly round cheeks, making her look young and full of light. 

The photo on Harry’s desk told a vastly different story, one that terrified him as he saw Draco growing closer to that reality every day. 

Harry couldn’t remember Pauline at all from Hogwarts but knew for a fact that she wouldn’t have looked like this then. An unwavering sense of melancholy had replaced her charm. She looked like an addict, with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes that sat behind the grimmest of smiles to have ever plagued the earth.

Somehow, despite all that he’d done to his husband, Harry felt sorry for her. 

“We haven’t any leads on this.” Ron sighed, pushing an overgrown lock of ginger hair away from his eyes. Hermione would ask him to cut it soon, and he would argue otherwise. 

It had been a few months since they had visited the crime scene, and nothing had changed. 

Seamus and Parvati had tracked a few operations running out of Knockturn, to which Harry had suppressed a heart attack, though eventually, nothing fruitful came of their undercover work. 

Harry had since visited the apothecary he frequented to see if the man who’d sold him the stuff was still working there. Instead, he was met with a younger woman. She looked to be no older than a teenager, but Harry couldn’t care less when he needed a refill. 

There were also the deceptive qualities of glamours and Polyjuice to consider. Quite literally, no one in Knockturn could be taken at face value. 

“I don’t want to give up, but I’m tired,” Harry said honestly, and Ron pasted on a sympathetic smile. 

“Everything okay at home?” 

“Yes,” Harry snapped too quickly to conceal the truth. How was that at all relevant? 

Ron pointedly looked down at his files and pressed himself further back into the sofa of Harry’s office to put more space between them. Harry watched him for a moment, uncomfortably before turning his gaze back to the papers. 

Things were definitely not okay at home.

Life became increasingly volatile for Harry, and he was nothing short of terrified to go home every day. A new horror, argument, or terror awaited him each evening. Something about the way the potion rendered Draco so pliant and malleable excited Harry in a way that he would never have imagined.

It wasn’t that he wanted his husband to be the cold and emotionless shell of himself that he was before, but a small, dark part of Harry liked that Draco was scared — liked that Draco felt trapped with him.

That way, he’d never try to leave again. 

“How long till they classify this cold?” Ron asked, changing the subject whenever it strained too heavy in the room. 

“It’s only been a few months, Ron. We haven’t tried hard enough yet,” Harry said, only to say it. 

“But it’s not like we haven’t tried at all. I want justice for Pauline as much as the next Auror, but we have to consider how trying to solve a case with no evidence and no leads affects this entire operation. Our skills could be more useful somewhere else, don’t you think?” 

Harry knew what Ron was getting at.

It had been months since the beginning of the Imperioserum investigation, and they had barely been out in the field. They’d visited a few crime scenes and questioned various shopkeepers and sellers that Seamus and Parvati had managed to track down, but that didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. 

Sometimes, Harry felt like Robards and the Minister were actively keeping him on the case for a show of good faith, even if that meant he wasn’t tasked with anything significant to force a breakthrough. When they finally cracked it, his name would be right there on the _Daily Prophet’s_ cover to remind any and everyone that he was still the Saviour of the wizarding world. Other people should receive the credit, but he already knew they wouldn’t. 

A cold wind blew in through the open window, and Ron stood to close it. 

Harry had been suffocating in an uncomfortable heat since he’d slipped on his Auror robes in the morning, after particularly brutal sex. He wasn’t quite ready to let go of any hint of cold, but it was practically the middle of December. It was only fair that Ron would want some warmth. 

“Listen,” Harry said, choosing to ignore Ron’s comment. “I’m seeing Pansy today for lunch, so go on without me.” 

Ron’s face fell, but only for a moment. It was probably becoming more apparent to him by the second that Harry was pushing him away. But there were good reasons, and Harry justified it to himself often that it would hurt less this way when the world discovered his indiscretions.

It was coming; Harry could feel it. Something sinister crept along his spine in response to the thought. 

He busied his hands with clearing the desk to push the feelings of unease away. 

“Alright. I’ll be in my office if you need me,” Ron said, even though they both knew that Harry wouldn’t. They hadn’t eaten lunch together in several weeks. 

After he had packed up his things and left, Harry reopened the window, relishing the wind’s biting chill against his face. He wrapped a hand around his neck, the way he had done to Draco so forcefully just that morning, and felt for a pulse. It raced faster than a Firebolt. 

A knock on his door cleared his thoughts. 

It was easy to forget the things he’d done to Draco now that he’d been doing them for months. He found it became more natural to deal with the guilt, the pain, if only in the short term. 

Harry cleared his throat and stepped away from the window. He knocked it closed with the back of his elbow, sending a sharp numbness reverberating down the length of his arm. Something about pain was so comforting and familiar. “Come in!” 

Pansy shuffled inside, a fur coat wrapped around her narrow shoulders swallowed her small frame. 

“Hi there,” she said, her voice saccharine. She’d always had a soft spot for Harry, and he hated exploiting her in the way he did now. But it only made sense to keep Ginny’s suspicions at bay. 

Where Pansy was a little too trusting for a Slytherin, Ginny was extra cautious for a Gryffindor. She hadn’t bothered to forget the night of Draco’s birthday party. Harry felt like it was just yesterday too. 

“Hi, Pans,” Harry said, wrapping her in a warm hug. Her coat was damp and smelled of the misty outdoors. Harry nuzzled into it unconsciously, feeling less trapped inside of his stone-walled office underneath London. She lifted him in a way that, especially now, Draco could not. 

“I brought soup since it’s cold as all hell outside,” she said, shrugging off her coat and settling into the chair across from Harry’s desk. He took his own and cleared space between them for lunch. 

“Thanks, Pans.” 

“It’s no bother. You know that. I’m glad we’ve been doing this —” she gestured to the space between them “— eating with each other more often. I don’t see you nearly enough for my taste.” 

“I agree,” Harry said, uncovering a steaming container of wonton soup. “This smells heavenly, Merlin. Did you make this?” 

“Of course I did. It was one of the only things my mother ever made for me when she wasn’t asking the elves to concoct some blasphemous British monstrosity. I swear whoever invented black pudding can fuck right off.” 

“I don’t know if I’d call British foods blasphemous, but they are certainly not superior to Chinese.” Harry laughed, tucking a dumpling into his mouth and moaning at the taste. “So damn good.” 

“You know,” she said, acquiring a look in her eye that made Harry’s stomach turn. He already knew what was coming before she said it. “My mother used to make these for me whenever I was having a particularly tough time.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes and tried, in his least accusing tone, to answer. “And that is relevant, how?” 

She took a delicate sip of her soup, closing her eyes at the taste. “Salazar, I _am_ a phenomenal cook.” 

Harry snorted into his bowl. “Don’t let it get to your head; It’s big enough as it is.” 

Pansy reached out to smack him, but he darted out of the way just in time. 

“You know, they say I have Seeker reflexes,” Harry joked, feeling a subtle undercurrent of happiness in his chest. 

Something about being around her brought out a playful side of him that nobody had seen in years. He tried to muster it around Ron and Hermione, but they were too wary of any positivity from him at all nowadays. Draco was a whole different story. 

“Oh, please. The next time I see your face featured on the cover of _Witch Weekly_ , I’m effectively cancelling my subscription.” Pansy rolled her eyes. 

“You already _have_ a subscription?” Harry clutched his chest and let out a teasing laugh. 

Pansy smiled weakly, but her expression had returned to quiet and contemplative. “I wish you wouldn’t consider me naive, Harry,” she said, turning her gaze away from his and balancing her head on one hand. 

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. “I don’t. Not at all,” he said and meant it. 

“I don’t know if you mean to, or actually think the rest of the world is oblivious to what is going on. I honestly can’t tell you which would be worse.” 

“Get on with it then,” he said, sliding his wedding band around his finger. An unpleasant feeling caught in his throat, like the one he felt just before he sicked up after a particularly drunken night out — pure anticipation. 

Pansy sighed, pushing her soup to the side. She looked weary and tired, as though Harry’s presence for mere moments alone had drained her of any semblance of happiness. He hated that he had that effect on her, when Pansy did quite the opposite to him. 

He wondered, humourlessly, if most people felt that way around him. 

Harry picked at his food, feeling less hungry than he had earlier, and internally questioned if it would be appropriate to stand up and leave to avoid a conversation he knew was coming. 

Instead, he schooled his features into casual calm. 

“You know I’m only saying this because I love you.” 

“And?” Harry asked irritably. 

Pansy took a breath, as though she were calculating her thoughts. “Something is wrong with Draco.” 

Harry sucked in a breath, but Pansy was thankfully focusing attention elsewhere. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “Could you be more specific?” 

“Harry, I know you have to be seeing what I’m seeing, and Ginny’s worried sick. Draco’s been missing work and moping around at home. He barely firecalls us anymore when he used to all the time! He’s obviously going through something, and we need to be there for him.” 

“Well, I’m there for him,” Harry snapped, sounding harsher than he had meant to be. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think it is.” Pansy glanced down at her hands. She had grown out of her confrontational demeanour from their school days, and still, she was here defending one of her first friends. Harry knew that he was closer with Pansy now than Draco was, but he supposed it made sense that she’d never stop worrying about his well-being, especially if Ginny was breathing down her shoulders to check-in. 

Harry had offhandedly suggested Draco stop talking to Ginny weeks ago — for his own good, of course. Somehow Harry had turned into the enemy when all he was trying to do was fix an unfixable situation. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say. As far as I can tell, he’s doing just fine,” Harry said defensively, feeling walls instinctively slam up in his mind like a stellar Occlumens. He’d mastered it early on in training and was glad to have done so. 

Tendrils of Pansy’s magic reached out, inconspicuously toward his mind, and he shoved them back with a vengeful force. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Harry stood abruptly, and the container of wonton soup clattered to the side, spilling leftover broth over his paperwork. He applied a drying charm to it unthinkingly.

Pansy stood to match him, a look in her eye indicating that she wasn’t going to give up anytime soon. “I don’t know if what I’m getting from you is the truth anymore. I have every right to —” 

“I’m an Auror, Pansy, or did you forget? I could detain you right here for even _trying_ something like that with me.” Harry exhaled, hot air blowing out from between his lips with every word. He would have been surprised if his face wasn’t an angry and unpleasant red. It certainly felt like it was. 

Pansy waved a hand dismissively, but there was nervousness in her face. “You’re not going to do that, don’t be daft. You and Draco are worrying us, so if you don’t somehow come up with an explanation for all this weird behavior soon, we’re going to have no choice but to —” 

Someone coughed from the doorway, and Pansy and Harry pulled apart. He hadn’t realised how close their faces had been until he stood firmly back on the balls of his feet and forced himself to look at the door. 

Ron stood awkwardly in the entryway with a file in his hand. 

“Harry, something urgent has come up. We’re needed.” 

“You know your way out.” Harry nodded to Pansy, keeping his voice as even as he could bear. 

“Harry —” she muttered. 

He cleared his throat instead and beckoned Ron over with one hand. He approached awkwardly as Pansy gathered her things and made a swift exit. She gave Ron an affectionate pat as she passed him but didn’t bother to say goodbye. 

“What was that about?” Ron asked, eyeing the space in which Pansy had occupied. 

“God alone knows.” Harry sighed, massaging his head. “What’s going on?” 

“Pauline Marchand’s killer confessed. He’s being held in the cells now before interrogation. We have him for a couple of hours before the Minister wants him sent to Azkaban. The _Prophet_ wants to publish the story for tomorrow morning’s headlines, so we have to be quick.” 

Harry allowed his careful mask to slip as both terror and relief settled onto his features simultaneously. They’d been working the case for months, and Harry had practically promised her family that he’d follow through. Of course, he’d let them down without even realising it, or bothering to apologise. It was a weight off his chest to know that the killer had come forward, but an even more considerable burden to know that this could be the key to breaking the case.

He’d have to focus on that later, though. 

He and Ron had been so close to classifying the case as a suicide out of simple convenience. Harry felt embarrassed at the thought but knew that there were things that needed to be prioritised as an Auror. For a while, Harry was ashamed to admit that Pauline hadn’t felt like one. 

“Alright,” Harry said unsteadily, reaching for his desk’s edge to ground himself back into reality. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Ron said, unsettled. 

They exited the DMLE, taking the lift down to the Ministry’s cellars, where criminals were temporarily housed before their court hearings or interrogations. 

The walls were a grey cobblestone that smelled disturbingly marshy. Moss grew tangled and stretched along each brick’s jagged surfaces as though it inhabited space in the rainy outdoors. The ground itself was the type of spongy wet that Harry hated to step on even in his garden at home. Death lived in the skeleton walls of the cellars. 

Two guards led the prisoner into a room at the far end of the hall, and Harry’s heart caught in his throat at the sight. He couldn’t yet make out any specific details, but knowing the man had used Imperioserum at all was troubling enough. 

In a way, he and Harry were no different. 

Ron continued their descent, and Harry followed close behind to not stray too far on his own. He never liked being alone in this part of the Ministry and made a point to avoid it actively. Something about the cloying and claustrophobic environment of his office was still far more welcome than this. 

When he and Ron entered the doorway at the other side, they saw the prisoner was bound to a chair; his arms stretched forward in leather straps that pulled taut across the bare skin of his arms and tugged at existing cuts and scrapes. He glanced up at the intrusion, balking immediately at Harry’s appearance, recognising him. 

The shopkeeper from Harry’s usual apothecary sat back in his chair, regarding him with a toothy and knowing smile. 

Harry’s eyes widened at the sight, and he stopped in the doorway as Ron shuffled in next to him. 

His mind oscillated between both panic and relief. On the one hand, he was glad that the man had turned himself in, and Harry wouldn’t need to compromise himself to give the Ministry such important information. On the other, the shopkeeper had information that could ruin his life. 

Harry would choose the fate of death sooner than reveal his involvement in a perceived criminal underworld. 

“You alright, mate?” Ron whispered, tugging him forward gently.

“Just fine,” Harry choked out, but he was far from it. Pull it together, he told himself. March on. 

Harry hiked his robes higher over his shoulders, wishing they would envelop him whole and whisk him away to a place far less terrifying and real. Instead, he sat at the table across from the terribly smug man and opened the file. 

“Dorian Locke,” Ron read aloud, as though the subject wasn’t already in the room. “Charged with the murder of Pauline Marchand and already confessed.” 

“So why’s he here then?” Harry muttered, and Ron gave pause for a moment in response. He’d blatantly disregarded Auror protocol and interrogation training, but that was the last thing on his mind. 

“Seems as though you might need some information from me.” Locke grinned, sending an immediate shiver down Harry’s spine. 

Neither Harry nor Ron replied, but they regarded the man with distaste. He seemed happy almost, too excited to have relinquished his freedom for capture. 

“We have a few questions before they move you to Azkaban. If you cooperate completely, there’s a chance we may suggest a reduced sentence to the Wizengamot. You have a right to an attorney but have waived this already. Is this clear, and do you understand?” 

Locke nodded eagerly, as though he were excited at the words. 

This man was much different than the shopkeeper Harry had encountered in Knockturn Alley that day. Where that man was quite reserved and notably sycophantic, this one was wild and manic. Almost unhinged in a way that made Harry want to turn and run from the room. 

“You know I didn’t actually kill her,” he said gleefully, and Harry gripped his seat harder in an attempt to subdue a flare of anger. “Was probably that nasty ex-boyfriend of hers, you know? Though, it’s not my business anyway. He was a right piece of work, but that girl, she needed some controlling. You know how _they_ can be.”

“Locke,” Ron warned, knuckles turning white where he clutched the file in a hard grip. “You are not to speak out of turn.” 

“Are you taking back your confession?” Harry asked, his strained voice betraying his cool demeanour. 

“Not necessarily.” Locke twiddled his thumbs. “I did sell the man that potion, so in effect, I did help him kill her.” He laughed to himself as though this was somehow an inside joke. Harry’s blood curdled, and there was a pause. 

“I heard some choice dementors are waiting for you just outside if you’re interested,” Harry said, breaking the silence and fighting to keep his tone even. “A kiss, maybe, if you’re feeling bold.” 

“Alright, alright,” Locke ceded, turning his gaze on Harry with a wicked understanding. When Ron glanced down at the file to flick to the next page, Locke winked, and Harry’s stomach dropped through the floor. He knew. “I’ll volunteer information without any deal at all, you know.” 

“You want nothing in return?” Ron asked skeptically, snapping his manila folder shut. 

Harry chewed at the inside of his cheek, feeling relief at the release of blood from the soft interior of his mouth. Pent up pressure seeped from the open wound. Ron knocked his boot against Harry’s leg, and only then did he look down and realise he’d been unconsciously shredding the corner of a paper with his fingertips. His nerves were sensitive and raw. 

“I want to speak to Auror Potter...alone.” 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Ron rolled his eyes. “There is _no_ way in hell we’ll ever allow —” 

“It’s alright. This way, we’ll see if whatever he has to offer is worthwhile,” Harry said, his tone clipped and professional. Locke could see through it, of course, but he needed to keep up a pretence for Ron at the very least. 

“A guard should stay,” Ron said, matter-of-fact. 

“No guards,” Locke replied quickly, dragging his eyes unabashedly over the length of Harry’s chest. “Just the two of us...strangers, really.” He threw his head back with a laugh and clawed against his bounds like a caged animal. 

“Go,” Harry said, and there was an authoritative undertone in his voice that made Ron listen. He stood warily from his seat and dropped his portion of the file into Harry’s lap. 

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, pointedly levelling a gaze at Locke that Harry would have been frightened of himself. 

Harry could take on Locke easily in the room alone — if it boiled down to a physical aspect, Harry had the smaller man beaten by ages. They’d relinquished their wands at the doors anyway to a particularly grumpy and caffeine-deprived midday guard. 

Harry wasn’t in danger of anything but the possibility of his own exposure. Somehow, that was a fate far worse. 

“Well,” Harry said, placing his palms flat on the table so he wouldn’t worry with his hands. 

“How interesting, Auror Potter. How very interesting.” Locke tilted one corner of his mouth up in a sly smile. 

“How do you know?” Harry asked gruffly, hoping his steely tone wouldn’t betray pure and absolute terror. Locke had more power over him than anyone else in the wizarding world at this very moment, and Harry wanted to rip it from his filthy grasp. 

Locke laughed something long and drawn out. The noise echoed and reverberated across the cold stone walls. A bitter chill enveloped the room, almost as though the warmth had excused itself with Ron.

Harry felt utterly alone. 

“It was easy to tell, you know. One would think that the Saviour, the Chosen One himself, would know better than to use a glamour. A third-year potions student would know Polyjuice is foolproof. But you were too busy saving the world, weren’t you? What was it in _your_ third year, Sirius Black?” A glint in Locke’s eyes told Harry he enjoyed the toying around. 

The illicit pleasure of knowing he had acquired the upper hand. 

“Don’t you dare say his name,” Harry said, eyes burning. 

Locke continued as though Harry hadn’t even spoken. “You see, even Black himself could’ve told you not to be so stupid. You really think with the likes of people down in Knockturn Alley, not one would’ve seen through your weak and powerless disguise? Could Auror Harry Potter surely be so dense?” He cackled at his words, running his fingers thoughtfully down his jaw and to his neck. 

The place in Harry’s mouth that he had chewed raw was burning a sharp and metallic pain, so he switched to another area. 

He needed to hold his composure together to learn what Locke knew already. Harry would have to play the long game, even if the mindless taunting was unravelling any semblance of self-control he sought to hold on to. 

Harry should’ve known better than to use a glamour in the first place, but couldn’t bear to agree with Locke at all. Scolding himself internally, he continued. 

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked, feeling his patience wearing frighteningly thin. 

“Well, really, I don’t want anything, Auror Potter. Knowing I have you wrapped around my littlest finger is just enough for me,” Locke said, eyes blinking innocently and theatrically. 

“I don’t have the time for this. It’s easy enough for me to turn you over to Dementors. In fact, I’d take some pleasure in doing so. You’ll likely forget all about me when you’re a lifeless shell of your own body, rotting in Azkaban with the rest,” Harry spat. He felt something inside of him turn cruel and biting, and he rode the intensity of his emotions with a vengeance. “All you’ll be is a pile of bones.” 

Locke had the decency to look startled for a moment, likely surprised by the Golden Boy’s outburst. He probably never expected Harry to put up much of a fight.

Still, his calculating delight returned two-fold. “I have information.” 

“So you said.” Harry paused, his mouth hardening into a thin line. “And you require nothing in return for it?”

“Only the look on your face when you understand.” 

Harry narrowed his eyes, but curiosity swirled around his magic, making him feel alight with energy and trepidation. He inclined his head, as if to say, _I’m listening_. He was on the precipice, subject to the arguably deranged criminal’s whims in front of him. Reliant on him in a way that made Harry severely uncomfortable. 

“The potion worked at first, didn’t it?” Locke asked, eyes widening with intrigue as though Harry were a sick case study. 

Harry nodded in response, mouth dry and tongue brittle as he struggled to find the correct words to say. 

“You and Draco were doing better —” 

“Don’t you dare.” Harry’s eyes flashed angrier than they had when Locke had the nerve to mention Sirius. Draco was different. Draco was his. 

Locke rolled his eyes. “He’s your husband, isn’t he? No need to be so touchy, I won’t try anything.” He cleared his throat, allowing Harry a moment for his breathing to slow, before continuing. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you and Draco were doing better. Everything was working well, and you were left wondering, how is this working so well? How are we so happy?”

Locked tsked three times, and the noise made Harry’s heart feel sick. “You didn’t think that would change, did you? You naively thought it could last forever, even though we all know dark magic never plays by the rules we want it to. Something different is happening now, isn’t it, Auror Potter?” 

Harry breathed, counting the numbers out in his head as he inhaled and exhaled. It was a trick that Hermione had taught him to use whenever he felt his patience wearing thin, and usually, it worked like a charm. No such luck now. 

“Something is different,” he conceded, but his gaze was still stony, riddled with suspicion. 

“When you were in my shop that day, I never told you the side effects of the potion. Well, to be fair, I never expected you to use it. Harry Potter himself, in my dingy little apothecary, tucked away in the back alleys of Knockturn. The Dreamless Sleep, of course, made sense. Many of you so-called war heroes need that particular night aid.” Locke cleared his throat, eyes bright and happy at his successful capture of Harry’s attention. 

Harry glared at the seemingly meek and unassuming man sitting across from him, rapt by his musings. 

“I gave you the potion on purpose. An experiment, if you will. I didn’t know if you’d use it or not, but I knew I’d be able to tell from the photos in the papers. Do you know why Auror Potter?” 

“Why?” Harry asked, his body cold. 

“The potion doesn’t solely affect the user. It affects the person who administers it as well.” Locke toyed with the sleeve of his robes, and when he looked up, his features were impassive, clinical. 

Harry felt his blood curdle at the thought. “So how has it been affecting me, then?” He managed, breaths growing ragged.

“I’d chance that you already know that.”

His words were like a vice grip on Harry’s throat, choking him until constellations erupted before his eyes. 

Harry thought back to the recent month in which things had taken a literal turn for the worse. He’d been uncharacteristically aggressive toward his husband, so much so that his friends had begun asking questions. They worried about his presence in a room entirely. Draco always had a terrified look in his eyes, and it prodded at something deep and primal in Harry’s gut that he _enjoyed_. 

He obtained profound pleasure from Draco’s pain. 

“What the fuck,” he said aloud, wonder and terror clouding the thoughts in his head. “What do I do?” 

Locke smiled, almost comfortingly, and Harry startled at the gesture. “It’s not for me to tell you that you should stop. We both know you won’t.” 

Harry nodded his head, pained because that much was true. He was too far gone. 

“I can’t stop now.” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it. “I have nothing else.” 

“Do you have a quill and some parchment?” 

Harry searched through the pockets of his robes before producing both items unquestioningly and laying them on the table. Locke scrawled something in a chicken-scratch script that reminded Harry of his own handwriting. He slid the note across the table and back to Harry with his things. 

_33 Wisteria Lane. Knockturn._

“You don’t have to stop if you don’t want to, now that my shop’s closed,” Locke said, his voice low. “But you must know that this will only get worse. Things that satisfied you before won’t anymore.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, breath catching in his throat. He coughed a few times before allowing Locke to continue.

“It’s like a drug, you see. You’ll be ruthless. Merciless. Overindulgent. I suppose you know that there is already a little something dark in the back of your mind. It’ll tell you to do depraved things. Of course, you can always decide if you want to listen or run.” 

Harry swallowed uncomfortably. It was a disturbing revelation to realise his mind wasn’t entirely his own. He stood from the table, making for the exit hastily. 

“Auror Potter,” Locke called, and Harry’s head turned a fraction of an inch to accommodate him. “You forgot my little gift.” 

The note, citing a new supplier, sat inconspicuously on the tabletop. Harry took it quickly, feeling the weight of it settle into his pocket as he shoved it in. 

He had made his decision, and he would have to live with its consequences.

–––

Harry returned in the darkness to a cold home. Supper was slated to be a miserable affair, after all, and Draco was already at the kitchen table, awaiting the horror of their evening.

“Hi,” he said, his voice timid and small. Harry wondered if this was how he’d been as a child, in a Manor alone with Lucius and Narcissa. 

“Hey,” Harry said, throwing his bag to the side of the table and collapsing into a chair. The day had exhausted him, and something about Draco’s presence had done so even more. 

“How was work? Can I make you something? Are you tired?” The words that flung themselves out of Draco’s mouth were obviously forced. It was clear from the fear in his eyes that the potion was busy at work, peppering Harry with precisely what he needed. 

A few months ago, Harry would have cringed at the sight of it. Now, he was accustomed enough not to care. 

“Will you make something for dinner? I’m a bit tired tonight,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice even and pleasant enough.

Even if the potion’s strange magic was raging inside of him and begging him to start a fight, Harry wouldn’t concede just yet. It was important for Draco to maintain a small pretence of reality still. After all, he still didn’t know what was happening, even if he had marginally begun to catch on. 

Harry had found out later why Draco had visited Luna a few months before. It made sense that he’d go to her, and it made no sense at all that it had somehow travelled back to Harry. 

By pure luck, Luna accidentally mentioned it around Neville, who could never keep a secret from Harry. He was too fond of him for that. They’d been weeding out an incredibly overgrown area around the sunflower patch together when he’d confronted Harry with the information. 

Harry had feigned surprise, of course, because there was nothing better to do. But that night, he’d carefully instructed Draco on his next steps. 

“You shouldn’t speak to anyone about the thoughts in your head, Draco,” he’d said, and that was that. 

They ate dinner in silence, punctuated by Draco asking if he could do anything useful or get Harry something else. Harry said, “No, thank you” every time, even though something inside him wanted to let out a feral cry and just shove Draco from his chair for even trying. 

His hands were growing shaky from the pent-up anger and emotion inside himself, and he would break soon. Draco knew it too because he was turning a beet red, and his hands were trembling more than they usually did at the dinner table. 

“I’ll do the dishes,” Harry said, feeling like the repetitive and comforting act of cleaning would set even just a few things right. 

“You sure? I’d be happy to help,” Draco replied, though his face was far from such. 

“No, I want to.” Harry turned his hands to the dishes and began scrubbing with a Muggle sponge. 

He was through both plates, a few teacups, and had moved on to scrubbing the counters when he felt hands press into his sides, and a head rest on his shoulder. Draco breathed a sigh onto him that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck creep up unpleasantly.

The old grandfather clock on the wall chimed twelve, and the sound rang out through their big kitchen, bouncing off of various objects with a loud clang. Lyra ruffled her feathers at the noise before retreating into somewhere quieter in the house. She’d probably ask to be let out from the bedroom window, even though the French doors were flung unceremoniously open despite the cold. 

Draco would usually complain about that, but Harry knew he was physically incapable of doing so. Instead, he’d changed into a silk button-down pyjama shirt that clashed with his trousers from work. Still, Harry found the sight adorable, before an inevitable part of his mind snapped at him to relinquish such thoughts.

For whatever reason, Harry listened. 

Draco kissed at his neck, sucking and biting at all the little spots that made Harry groan. He did, out loud, and Draco’s message was well and truly received. 

Sex was always something they did well. Harry turned, pressing a bruising and full kiss to Draco’s lips that was harsh and needy. Draco groaned softly into Harry’s possessive touch. 

_Mine,_ a voice echoed in the back of Harry’s head. He barely paid attention to it as he claimed Draco’s lips once more, kissing down his neck and spinning them around, so his husband was pressed back against the counter instead. 

“D’you want me?” Harry said, speech slurred. 

Draco nodded eagerly, lust clouding his eyes with a fog, and he beheld Harry with a desire that neither of them had experienced since before their wedding days. 

Something about the potion made them both so achingly passionate, so volatile. 

Already half hard, Harry reached for his belt buckle, but Draco took over with steadier hands than he’d had at dinner. He dropped to his knees breathlessly. Draco’s mouth enveloped his shaft in a warm and velvety heat that felt like heaven on earth. 

“Oh, Draco,” Harry gasped, steadying himself with one hand against the cabinet and another tangling fingers gently into Draco’s hair. 

Draco swallowed him whole and then eased back out again, flicking his tongue teasingly across the tip and meeting Harry’s gaze ardently. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking at Harry like it was his life’s purpose. Harry began to move, slowly at first, but increasing his pace and relishing how it looked to have Draco’s pink lips wrapped so beautifully around the length of him. 

“Up,” Harry commanded when he felt a building pressure in his groin. 

Draco obeyed, standing quickly and dropping his trousers in the process. His shirt remained firmly on, and Harry reminded himself not to push. 

“Table?” Harry asked, eyeing the bare hardwood and dreaming about laying Draco down on it and fucking him until neither of them could still see. 

‘Mmm, yeah,” Draco said. “Carry me?” 

Harry did, effortlessly lifting Draco into his arms, feeling the soft press of his erection into the gentle crease between Draco’s arse. Harry groaned at the sensation, rubbing slowly against him as he brought them to the table. He laid Draco out, more delicious than any meal served on its surface before. 

Draco was already hard, leaking precome onto his stomach. 

Harry summoned the lube, and it flew around the corner of the hallway and into his outstretched hand. He emptied a substantial amount of the bottle onto his fingers, giving his erection a few tugs with a slick hand. 

Draco cried out as Harry slammed inside without a second thought, pressing deep into his core. 

“Ah, for God’s sake, Harry!” Draco protested as he attempted to sit up. “Not even going to prep me then?” 

Harry ignored the question, settling his weight inside of Draco and focusing entirely on his own feeling. He shoved a hand out to force his husband back down onto the table. Draco was tight and hot when he wasn’t worked open to begin with, and Harry was relishing the stretch, the pain Draco probably felt. 

He was so delicate; it made Harry feel strong and possessive in a way he usually didn’t. 

“You’re incredible,” Harry said instead, pulling Draco’s legs open wider and starting to move. 

Draco’s cheeks were red and flushed, his gasps stuttered by cries of pain and pleasure. It wasn’t long before he was telling Harry to fuck him harder and faster, with blond hair plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“Look how pretty you are,” Harry said, deliriously high off of the sensation and throbbing heat wrapped around him. 

“Not pretty,” Draco managed, breath shallow with every thrust. “Oh, there!” 

“So good for me, look at you all open and willing,” Harry said. “You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you? You’d let me do _anything_.” His cock strained harder at the thought — that Draco was all his and no one else’s. That, really, Harry held complete control over the man underneath him. And what he wanted, he could have. 

There was something unsure in Draco’s eyes, but he fucked him through it anyway, where earlier he might’ve stopped to ask if something was wrong, if he could do something differently. Draco didn’t say anything either, and Harry assumed it was fine. He was too lost in sensation to care. 

The table rattled beneath them, letting out squeaks of protest at the unwelcome weight. 

_Take his shirt off._ Harry’s mind goaded him, encouraging a behavior he would never dare in any other moment but this one. 

Locke’s unforgettable words from the cellar came back to him immediately despite the throes of pleasure. _You can listen, or you can run._

He wrenched Draco’s shirt from his body as the man cried out from beneath him. Buttons ripped from the seams and clattered loudly to the floor. Harry was hungry, his eyes were wide with desire, and Draco was bent over, his for the taking. 

“Harry, what the actual fuck! Put it back on —” 

Harry stuffed the shirt into Draco’s mouth ruthlessly instead. “Quit talking.” The command was swift, and Draco’s mouth snapped closed around the button-down instead. Harry couldn’t bother to look at his face. 

Instead, he rocked into him feverishly, tracing down the hard lines of his ribcage and across the scars left by _Sectumsempra_ all those years ago. He moaned shamelessly at the sight of his husband’s bare chest, one he hadn’t seen since their Hogwarts days. 

“Look at you, Christ,” Harry breathed, snapping his hips up in quick succession, and the fabric between his teeth muffled Draco’s whimper. “All mine.” 

Draco cried out beneath him, and Harry lifted him to sit on the edge of the table. His legs shook as Harry entered him once more, but his eyes rolled back into his head with a pleasure that vibrated throughout his slender body. 

When he was fully seated inside of him, Harry thrust roughly, reaching a hand to wrap around Draco’s neck. Draco trembled at the contact, his eyes searching hungrily as his hips bucked against Harry’s own. 

He managed to spit out the shirt from his mouth, and a tumble of swears emerged in its absence.

“Oh, God, fuck you, Harry. I fucking hate you for this. Oh, right there! Yes, faster, please—” Draco cried, his eyes tearing up as Harry’s grip tightened around his neck and his cock pumped in and out explosively. 

“So beautiful, Draco, come for me,” Harry said, feeling himself growing close. Draco tugged fiercely at his own cock until he shouted his release. 

Harry came seconds later, growling at the pressure and squeezing tighter around Draco’s small body. When he removed his hands from his husband’s neck, purple fingerprints formed an alarming circle on ivory skin. 

Harry wasn’t surprised and, frankly, decided it was worth it. 

He extracted himself from Draco almost clinically, gathering his clothes without a second glance in his direction and stalking off to the bathroom for a shower. 

Cold water snaked in tendrils along the length of Harry’s legs. He couldn’t reward himself with a hot and relaxing shower after what he had done. 

Harry gazed blankly at the white tile beneath his feet, bowing his head against the wall. He shivered at the sensation and felt tears well up in his eyes without permission. He figured he’d only need a few minutes anyway. Draco would probably be doing the same in the guest bathroom. 

Harry felt more tears prick at the corners of his eyes, a white and hot shame burning bright through his core. What he’d done to Draco was something he had vowed never to do. He couldn’t imagine any of his friends disrespecting their partners in that way. It was a disturbing thought to think of Ron and Hermione even having sex, but it was true. Neither of them would dare act so violently during such an intimate moment. 

Harry knew it was the result of the potion, and now that Locke had informed him about it, the darker side of him had somehow decided it was ready to awaken with an act of full vengeance. 

He stepped out of the shower, towelling off wet hair before heading for the bedroom. In pyjamas, Draco was lying underneath the sheets with his wand clutched between his hands and his eyes searching the darkness for an escape. His freshly washed hair was creating a dark spot on the pillow. 

Harry suddenly felt awkward. Like he'd had a particularly rough one-night stand. Like he didn't know the man in his bed all that well at all. Draco removed himself from the sheets before coming to stand in front of Harry. 

"Draco, I —" Harry said, intending to apologise for his behaviour. For the potion's behaviour, really. Not his. 

"Stop." Draco held out a hand in front of his face, and something red flared up inside of Harry. 

_How dare he do that to you._

Harry felt his face grow hot at Draco's disrespect. His skin crawled with ghostlike energy, and he felt as angry as he ever had when he was practically pre-pubescent. He'd always had an unmatchable temper. 

“Don’t say stop to me,” Harry said, his voice low and threatening. 

Draco’s eyes flashed something hostile, but his emotions schooled themselves quickly on his face. He seemed shocked at the abrupt change in body language. 

The potion had rendered Draco weak, Harry thought, and a sick part of him liked it. He’d be compliant, easy to be around. 

Draco huffed, but it emerged in a petulant way, like a small child arguing with a parent. Though Harry hardly had the patience of one. “I’m an adult, Harry. I can —” 

“Say what you want?” Harry supplied a sharp grin that turned calculating and cold on his severe features. “And you’re sure about that?” 

They were dancing across a thin, practically nonexistent line. 

Whether Draco knew about the potion and its effects, Harry was unsure. But they were close to mentioning something so unspoken out loud. That neither of them truly had control over their thoughts anymore, and to Harry, that was thrilling. 

Draco looked ethereal like this, so yielding under Harry’s heavy gaze. He felt in control, powerful, in a way he never had before; relishing the feeling, he closed his eyes at the thought. 

“Say you love me,” Harry said, and the potion twisted happily inside of him at the command. 

“I love you,” Draco said, frowning at his mouth. “I didn’t mean to —” 

“Say you need me.” 

“I need you.” Draco looked around, flustered, and uncomfortable. “Harry, what’s going on?” 

“Say you will _never_ leave me,” Harry said, this time his voice a little more uncertain where it had been confident just seconds earlier. 

Something pained flashed across Draco’s features, and Harry could practically see his internal battle. He was trying to say he couldn’t, but the potion wouldn’t let him. Because, even if Harry treated him like this, there was a small part of Draco that would always want him. They were meant to belong to one another.

Harry wanted to possess Draco like a collectible object, to keep him out of reach of anyone else’s dirty grasp and away from harm at all. 

If he could lock him up in a glass box and keep him safe and protected and untouched there for the rest of eternity, he would. 

“I’ll never leave you,” was forced out of Draco agonisingly. 

Harry paused, smiling darkly. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Harry, but whatever is going on is crossing a line,” Draco said, his gaze hardening under the weight of Harry’s own. 

Harry feigned surprise, and in his most Slytherin of characteristics, he mustered a sense of false courage. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Draco’s eyes widened. “I can’t control myself, and you know that.” 

“And you think that has something to do with me?” Harry said coldly. “I don’t think so. I think, subconsciously, you want everything that I’m giving you. You want me like this.” 

“I do,” Draco conceded, and Harry could tell the potion had wrenched the answer from him entirely. “You’re probably right.” 

Harry reached into the closet for his pyjamas. He was growing tired from all the play-fighting, but he had more fun than he could have ever expected. He slid on a pair of flannels just as he said, “I know I am.” 

His back was turned on Draco, but he felt no fear at the fact. Draco wasn’t nearly as much of a threat as he had been before the Imperioserum, and for that, Harry felt a weight soar from his chest. This felt like a game. 

After a quiet pause, Harry turned. 

“Harry, you’ve never done something like that to me before,” Draco said, his voice quivering and small. “During sex, I mean.” 

He backed into the corner of the room, and Harry advanced without realising what he was doing. Something in his blood was burning, thrumming through his body like a high he’d never felt before. 

He’d experimented with a few wizarding drugs after the war, mostly for fun, but this, _this_ , was something else. It was a rush like pure heroin swan diving into his veins and shocking his heart into a euphoric rhythm. 

Cornering Draco felt predatory in a way that Harry delighted in. 

“Does it help you to know that I can’t control myself?” Harry spoke in a strained voice, as though it cost him something to say.

Draco knew nothing about the potion. He’d believed Harry about his subconscious — he probably thought of that initially, to be fair. 

“Not at all.” 

Draco surveyed him with terror in his eyes that Harry couldn’t place. His fear excited Harry, like the thrill of a fresh kill on a particularly strenuous hunt. He knew it was the potion’s effects that were causing such a reaction, and that the interrogation earlier in the day should have been reason enough for him to stop administering it. But something in the back of his mind demanded him not to dare. He listened to it, unflinchingly. 

“Why did you do it?” Draco rasped, his voice tired and sad. 

Harry knew he should’ve felt remorse, or even the slightest inkling of guilt, especially when confronted so viscerally with the products of his actions. The feelings didn’t come through. The magic in his veins buzzed excitedly at eliciting any and every adverse reaction from Draco. It fed off of his pain and misery and redirected the energy toward Harry instead. 

“I couldn’t control myself,” Harry whispered because it was the truth, his face close enough to Draco that he could reach out and lick a stripe down the side of his face.

It was an unsettling thought that the substance required him to comply with. But it didn’t push him in the way that Draco probably felt. It just sat there, a constant reminder of how terrible a person Harry had become. Ruthless and reckless in his resolve. 

“Please, I’m asking you not to do it again,” Draco warned, his breathing turning shallow. 

“Even if I said yes,” Harry chuckled, bitter and impassive, “you’d want it from me.” 

“I can assure you, I wouldn’t want that ever again,” he said, his eyes wide. Harry stepped closer, and Draco placed his hands protectively against Harry’s chest. 

“We’ll just have to see,” Harry said abruptly, remembering himself and turning on his heel to exit the suffocating space of their room. 

It was only when he had collapsed onto the couch with a book that a cold shock of emotion hit him in the face. He felt weak and unworthy of someone as wonderful as his husband. Harry was abusing him and his trust, that's what this was. Plain and obvious as day. Draco was scared, but this wasn't alighting the same curiosity and excitement in Harry when they were in the same room. It only served to deepen a cavity of sadness and loss that Harry felt already rip apart in his chest. 

Harry knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if things, their relationship, continued this way, but at this point, there wasn't another option. 

So if living got to be too much, he just wouldn't bother.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco was in the garden, up to his knees in soil that smelled strangely of coffee and citrus.

It wasn’t necessarily a terrible way to spend his morning, but it was certainly not the most ideal. Nighttime snow had snaked around some of their protective wards and painted itself upon the carefully concealed flowers and herbs that they grew. 

You should tend to the garden; Harry had said when they woke up in a tangle of naked and bruised limbs and caught a glimpse of the weather. _Should_. Draco shook his head. A cursed word. He’d rather be curled up in bed with a good book and a steaming cup of tea on a frigid day like this one.

Instead, he trudged around the garden in Harry’s work boots that were two sizes too large and lamented his entire existence. 

The tiny and petulant milk thistles had decided to be uncooperative, but Draco was determined to make them work with him. Neville had told him that they were highly regarded for their medicinal properties and to pass said information along to Harry. 

Instead, Draco pretended he’d acquired the plants for Harry as a gift and set to grow them in their garden as soon as he could. 

Of course, there was a good reason. 

Draco remembered his conversation with Neville a few weeks earlier, after a particularly bad weekend with Harry, and had set out to counter the voice in his head in the most efficient manner possible. He was still completely unclear as to where it was coming from and had already refused Luna’s desperate pleas to see another Mind Healer. The whole situation was messy and tenuous, and Draco wanted no part in it. He’d deal with this the Malfoy way. By himself. 

Neville had been unusually interested in flowering medicinal plants as of late and, as a result, had chatted Draco’s ear off about it at Ginny and Pansy’s most recent get-together. 

Harry had been possessive and angry the entire time, but he allowed Pansy to cart him around the house like a show horse. He loved her. At times, maybe more than Draco himself. He found himself feeling a little angry at the closeness of their touch, the secret smiles they shared. Harry was so much _nicer_ to her. And well, he was probably attracted to her. If he wanted Pansy, he could probably have her, because she shared a similar interest in both sexes. But Draco had shaken himself out of the intrusive thought as Neville, cheeky grin plastered upon his features, replaced the empty champagne flute in his hand. 

“So, what were you saying about medicinal plants again?” Draco had asked, mostly attempting at politeness rather than chasing any inkling of curiosity. 

He wasn’t interested in plants like Harry was, and wondered why Neville bothered to try with him anyway. 

Harry was the Golden Boy in every aspect. People were so endeared that he loved gardening and working with his hands in the outdoors. They loved that he was a man in every sense of the word. Big, brawny, and radiating with energy. He entered a room and captured its attention with the most modest of smiles. 

“Well,” Neville had continued, “I’ve been working with St Mungo’s on some research with Silybum Marianum. It’s a peculiar plant, you see, but it’s worked like a charm in Janus Thickey. It walks a fine line between magical and Muggle; it’s one of the few that does.” 

Now Draco’s interest had been piqued. “The Janus Thickey Ward?” His eyebrows had shot up unintentionally. “What does it do?” 

“We’ve been making strides with patients who have issues with self-control. The Silybum helps cases involving drug or alcohol addiction or even something like a food or sex addiction. It’s been a miracle with patients who act on impulse and can’t break themselves away from the voice inside of their head telling them they need to do something,” Neville had explained.

Draco had felt his throat tighten at the revelation. Could the medicinal plant be of potential use to him? Maybe it would effectively quiet the noise inside his head and subdue the shattering headaches that occurred whenever he so much as disagreed with Harry. 

Though technically, Draco didn’t have any specific addiction to treat besides one to his hair gel and paperwork. The plant could be totally hopeless, and he would be none the wiser. 

Still, he owed it to himself to try. 

“Oh, really?” Draco had said, hoping a sense of overwhelming interest didn’t betray him. “That’s...wonderful.” 

Neville never missed a beat. “It is!” He had smiled, taking a sip of champagne. “Plants are a great resource when it comes to healing. Honestly, I’m surprised more people don’t use them at home since they’re so easy to grow.” 

If plants often deviated from most wizard’s innate understanding of what they healed, this could be his shot. The Silybum, or whatever it was called, could shut the voice up in his head once and for all. And if it didn’t work, then there would be no harm done. 

So Draco had gone home that evening and combed through Harry’s gardening manuals while he was fast asleep in bed. Finding out that Silybum Marianum was colloquially named “milk thistle” was only the first step in a long and laborious road. 

Another swift tug uprooted a small, encroaching weed from beneath the thistle stem. Technically the plants themselves were an invasive species and were generally classified as weeds in their own right. But Draco had grown protective of the little things, maybe because they represented an escape. A solution. Perhaps they gave him something to actively care about. They were just about all he had left, no matter which explanation was the more accurate one.

After chopping away with shears at the bases around some of his plants, Draco decided he was already too tired. Harry stood in the doorway as Draco angled past him smelling of rotting garbage — the lovely scent that characterised his thistles. 

“Morning!” he said, more cheerily than he had intended to. 

A thin smile touched Harry’s lips, but there wasn’t any warmth behind it. His eyes were tired and grey like they’d lost colour overnight. Draco settled at the table with the paper as Harry prepared their tea. It was a morning ritual they’d grown accustomed to even before their marriage had started to crumble. Harry sat across from him moments later, holding out a fragrant cup for Draco to take. 

Draco took a sip.

For just a moment he was free, sinking into the feeling of oblivion like a spoon dipped in honey. The euphoria passed after a second, and the world righted itself around him. The first sip of tea in the morning had become an unexpected small mercy. 

_AZKABAN FOR DORIAN LOCKE, POTIONS DEALER TURNED DARK_ , shouted the morning headlines. 

Harry peered over and rolled his eyes. “They’re only just reporting on this now?” 

“Hmm?” Draco raised an eyebrow in question. 

“He confessed what seems like ages ago. Shacklebolt had said they wanted the story to make paper headlines first thing the morning after, but I guess there must have been some kind of delay.” 

“And you didn’t notice this earlier?” Draco said, his tone dripping with condescension. Sometimes old habits die hard, and it was challenging not to pick a fight first thing at the breakfast table. 

“No.” Harry’s tone grew rigid and uncompromising. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he bit out. 

_Apologise._

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, more forcefully than he meant to. 

Harry licked a spot of tea from his lip in a gesture that should have been amusing but presented itself as entirely menacing instead. “Don’t question me like that, Draco. I don’t like it. Are we clear?” 

A sound flooded Draco’s ears that sounded distinctly like his own heartbeat. His head swarmed with the noise of bees. The buzzing was loud, unpleasant, and painful until he said: 

“Yes, we’re clear.” 

Relief followed like a tidal wave, and Draco breathed out an alleviated sigh for the welcome sensation of absolutely nothing going on in his head. 

Harry had turned his attention back to breakfast, but Draco was hardly hungry enough to eat a plate of food that he already didn’t want. 

“I’m not feeling well. I might owl in sick again,” Draco said casually.

He’d been avoiding Ginny at work for weeks on end, and she’d decidedly taken the hint. She was the type to hold grudges and would likely be stubborn enough in her resolve to not bother apologising before he did. Either way, Harry had suggested Draco cut his time down with her, and for God knows what reason, the voice in his head had forced him to listen. 

He missed her painfully, still.

“You might as well quit at this point. You’re never well enough anyway.” Harry laughed cruelly, and Draco suppressed a flinch, only at the mercy of his pride. 

He was good at his job. He enjoyed the frenetic and fast-paced world of finance that he’d drowned himself in after the war. It gave him purpose. Numbers were much easier to understand than people, and Gringotts had provided such a relief for so many years. It had been a constant when everything was different and changing. Draco couldn’t imagine quitting a job he’d devoted much of his heart and life to. 

_Quit._

“Alright, I’ll quit.” 

_What are you really? Just a paper-pusher at a bank,_ the voice said. 

Harry had the decency to look up, surprised at Draco’s concession. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it again. Draco knew better than to argue with the words inside of his head now.

In the beginning, he would have fought it, and sometimes it would have worked. Harry would tell him not to see Ginny or that he should take his shirt off during sex, and Draco would fight the swarm of angry bees away as though they would hurt him if they came too close. 

He had a stubborn resolve that was threatened by no one and nothing. That had changed. 

Draco was pliant now, easily influenced. He rarely thought for himself anymore, which was why he hung onto the thistles because, in essence, they were everything he had left.

Draco excused himself from the table to send an owl.

Lyra, despite the terrible weather, was eager to get out of the house anyway. It seemed as though the bad energy drained her too, and Draco didn’t blame her. Even though Harry was going to be at work all day, Draco thought he might get out of the house too. Do something for himself without his husband’s shadow looming over him. 

Once he’d sent Lyra off with a brief and half-hearted letter of resignation, he returned to a cleared table. The sound of creaking pipes told Draco that Harry was getting ready to shower. 

Draco was at least glad that Harry hadn’t dragged him in with him. He was still terribly sore from the night before.

Instead, Draco went to the guest bathroom to begin his day. His first glance into the mirror was always shocking, but he’d gotten used to the purple bruises scattered across his body. There were always going to be men that enjoyed leaving marks behind on the things they claimed. Harry was, apparently, no different. 

Fingerprints pressed into his neck and throat were darker than they usually were, and Draco suppressed a gasp. Porcelain skin was barely visible underneath disturbing hues of blue, grey, and black. A clear, circular ring around his throat displayed exactly where Harry’s punishing grip held him tight, pressing him to a wall with one hand and rutting inside of him like an animal. 

Draco felt used when he saw himself like this. 

Bile rose in his throat, and his breathing grew shallower, feeling as though he were going to be sick in the toilet. He swallowed it down, counting numbers until he was calm once more, and then resumed his routine. 

Stripping off his clothes for a shower was the next challenge in a morning full of many. 

Trousers and pants first, because they were easier. Still, purple spots dotted down each leg and mingled with the yellow stain of bruises from the days before. There were scratches, too, in various states of healing. Ones that had drawn blood and ones that had merely scraped off the topmost layer of skin. Some were scabbed over, but once they fell off, light spots were uncovered underneath to remind Draco of what had been done to him. What he’d let Harry do to him. 

Draco never usually maintained many boundaries when it came to sex. He and Harry had always danced along the line of vanilla and kinky, straying into either territory as their moods suggested. If Draco were honest with himself, he’d let his husband do just about anything with him if he asked. If he just _asked_. 

And there was something different about _this_ Harry fucking him than any other before. This one was calculating and ruthless, and he had no other desire in the world than to physically damage Draco as much as he could. 

To make him feel owned. 

A small, rational part of Draco knew he should never stand for such behaviour. But his mind, the voice in his head, lusted after it. He figured if there were a hard line that he wouldn’t want Harry to cross, his subconscious would be the first to tell him to stop. The voice inside of his head was on his side, wasn’t it? It had to be. 

His top half was next, the old sweatshirt he’d thrown on to work in the gardens. It was Harry’s and, naturally, too big on Draco’s lean frame. It reminded him of a time when his husband’s arms were the safest and most comfortable place on earth. 

Draco’s hands shook as he undressed himself and stood naked in front of the mirror. He barely recognised himself in his reflection, forcing a whimper down his throat from where it had risen. 

“Oh, Merlin,” he said aloud to no one in particular. 

Locking eyes with himself in the mirror, Draco hardened his gaze. He was supposed to be stoic in the face of adversity, after all, a Malfoy until his dying day. 

“I can do this,” he said to the mirror once more. “This is normal. All couples have rough sex. I look fine.” 

He chanted in a rhythm, hoping at least one affirmation would resonate and stick. Still, the insistent voice in his head was excusing behaviours from Harry that it usually wouldn’t. 

_You were made for this._

Draco’s eyes snapped up to meet themselves in the mirror. The voice had never spoken out of turn, never unprompted. 

“What?” he said aloud, louder than he had meant to, and panic rose in his throat. It clouded over rational thought. The voice wouldn’t respond. There was no way he could actually be having a conversation with his subconscious. 

_You were made for this._

“Made for what?” Draco asked, eyes wild as he backed away from the mirror.

The visual in the mirror was terrifying. His body stood there, same as it always was, still and unmoving. But his mouth, it was someone else's, the voice someone else’s, but it was coming from somewhere deep within himself. Draco looked away and then back to make sure he wasn’t losing his shit entirely. But he gazed into the mirror, and there was his reflection, smiling back at him with an unnerving intent. 

“What are you talking about?” Draco asked his reflection, already fearing the answer. 

He stepped away to press his back against the opposite wall, just as his reflection stepped closer. So close that it could have come right out of the mirror if it tried. Draco’s mind was swimming, and he was dizzy with an urgent panic. 

_Your only purpose in life is Harry. Surely you know that, living in his shadow this whole time. You’re worthless, nobody, without him._

“I’m not,” Draco said firmly. “I’m a good person. I’ve changed,” he tried, hoping he was convincing his subconscious more than himself. 

No such luck. 

_You think you can lie to me? You poor boy. I know everything about you. I am you._

Draco stared, transfixed by the figure in the mirror, telling him truths he’d pushed aside since the war. Because in many ways, his reflection wasn’t incorrect. He owed Harry everything, including his life. And if it weren’t for Harry, he’d be rotting in Azkaban alongside his father. Maybe rightfully so. 

_You’d be nothing without Harry. You’d be dead, and the world would be a better place for it._ His reflection was smiling now, smirking down at him in a distinctly Malfoy manner. 

It only served to convince Draco more that this was truly himself. It was his subconscious emerging to tell him something he already knew but had buried so deep. 

“Draco?” A tentative knock on the door startled him out of a state. “Is everything alright in there? Who are you talking to?” 

When he looked back at the mirror, everything was back to normal. He was met with his own haggard frame, crouching in a cloud of fear and shame by the closed door. 

“Yes,” Draco managed, but the room suddenly felt like it was contracting upon itself. He was wheezing, holding the counter for support as though it were a glimmering lifeline. Clinging to anything that could ground him back into reality. “Harry?” he said, and he could hear how broken his voice sounded. So weak and vulnerable, just like his subconscious had already known. 

“ _Alohomora!_ ” 

The lock clicked open, and Harry crept into the bathroom, taking care to not step on Draco, who was sitting in a heap on the ground. He was too upset to feel self-conscious about his nudity at all, though Harry barely startled at his appearance. Instead, his eyes raked possessively over Draco’s bruises before snapping himself out of a stupor quickly. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern in his tone. 

Draco hadn’t heard such care in so long that he almost burst into tears. He held it together, though, for fear of fracturing what was one of their first fragile moments in quite a while. Still, he wasn’t sure whether to tell Harry the truth. 

Clearly, in the past few weeks, Harry had been noticing how compliant Draco had been. How eager he was to do what was asked of him. And Harry, like the ever-positive Gryffindor that he was, had probably decided that Draco was just trying to be nice for once. That he was really trying. Harry probably liked him like this, Draco mused. The real Draco was much snarkier and less accommodating. Nobody liked that. 

Even so, he wasn’t sure whether to confide in Harry at all. He would have Draco committed immediately or suggest the involvement of a Mind Healer. Draco would rather be eaten alive by a dragon than lay victim to either of the two options. Rather than deal with it himself. 

“I’m fine,” Draco said, reaching for Harry, who helped him onto his feet. “I just feel a little dizzy.” 

“Maybe you are coming down with something,” Harry mused, his brow furrowing in concern. He reached a hand up and touched it to Draco’s forehead. “You’re a bit warm.” 

Draco moved it away instinctively. “I’m okay, really. I’ll just have a shower now,” he said, suddenly remembering his own body and crossing his arms across his scarred chest. 

“Well, yell if you need me, then,” Harry said skeptically, but he exited the small bathroom and left Draco by himself.

–––

Draco was spiralling. He wanted to argue that, well, he technically wasn’t. And it was only natural to be a little disconcerted by one’s spouse’s behaviour at times. But the truth of the matter was clear as the summer days they used to spend in the south of France.

Something was seriously wrong with Harry. 

While it was one thing that their sex life had grown erratic and unpredictable, it was entirely different to let that bleed into their everyday lives. Harry was sick; something had to be wrong. And Draco knew he wasn’t being paranoid, even though sometimes he did have a tendency to overthink.

Harry was cold and apathetic in a way that he’d never been before. In a way that Draco _had_ been in the summertime when he was more sure than ever that he wanted to leave the shambles of his marriage behind for something new. Something that challenged him in a healthy way. Maybe Harry wanted to leave him but couldn’t muster up the courage quite yet? Draco knew he’d be devastated if that were the case, but if it made Harry whole again, then so be it. 

What was most painful to know was that things had gotten better in the beginning. Their marriage, their lives, had improved for just a fraction of a second before the security slipped away. Like a false start, they’d burst out of the gates with unwavering confidence and unburdened tenacity to start over. 

Draco remembered a fond evening spent lazing around the house wrapped in each other’s arms just because. He dreamed about their brief moments of peace together at the kitchen table before a hectic day. The winter had brought forth a jarring disconnect that blanketed their existences in cold reality. 

Harry had lied about where he was going. 

After he had left, Draco optimistically crushed some of the thistle leaves together to create a sap-like substance, a thick milky white paste. He’d stirred it into his fourth cup of tea of the day and hoped for the best. 

Lying was something Harry never did. Draco wasn’t usually the jealous or possessive type, but he certainly seemed like it, stalking his husband in a poorly concealed glamour through the rainy backends of Knockturn on a weeknight. 

Really, with only some oozing liquid from his poorly grown plants to aid him in his pursuit. 

Why was Harry even in Knockturn? Why wasn’t he at his usual Muggle pub with Ron? It was fucking Christmas Eve. Why wasn’t he staying home? Questions tunnelled into Draco’s mind. He should’ve asked before Harry left, but the potion had prevented him from uttering a word. 

Knockturn Alley was always empty around the holidays. People, even the worst sort, were usually home with their families. Draco had considered asking his mother to come stay with them, but he knew she’d be happier spending the holiday abroad. And the woman was entirely too observant for her own good. She’d walk into their cottage and sniff out every deep-seated issue in their relationship like a bloodhound. Her presence wasn’t worth the questions, but he’d owl her a gift in time. Maybe a nice necklace from the new jeweller by Madame Malkin’s. 

Harry turned a corner onto Wisteria Lane, pulling dark robes over his wiry frame. 

Draco’s shoe slipped out against wet pavement underneath, and his body threatened to give way. He caught himself in time, steadying a hand against a slick lamppost before continuing forward. Rain bore down on his face, cutting at his cheeks violently as a biting wind drew tears from his eyes.

Draco was closing in now, and his face pinched in the storm. He hoped to God that Harry’s destination of choice was close by, because he was on the verge of giving up for the warm shelter of his favourite armchair and a mug of extra sweet hot chocolate. Maybe with a few marshmallows if he was going to be indulgent. Draco wished he wasn’t so damned curious all the time, and then perhaps he’d be at home instead of out in the pouring rain. 

Up ahead, a crackle of electricity surged through the streets as a lightning bolt energetically splintered across the sky. Knockturn plunged into blinding darkness, and Draco could barely make out Harry’s figure from up the road. He seemed to be walking without any effect from the weather. As if it were a regular day, and he was completing weekend errands. Draco pulled his robes up higher over his head, taking care to cover his hair.

If he happened to turn around, Harry would Apparate away immediately. On such an empty street, it would have been obvious to Harry that he was being followed. 

After what felt like an eternity, Harry pushed into a building surrounded by blackness from the outside. There didn’t seem to be a light on, but it didn’t appear to be a residence either. As Draco approached, noise from inside the establishment filtered out. A restaurant, perhaps. 

He stood outside the doorway, strengthening the glamour on his face and applying a muddy brown colour to his hair once more before following behind. The bar was archaic in its decoration. High tables and scattered chairs cluttered one side of the room, while the other had been reserved for a sweeping bartop. Everything was a dark walnut wood. Low hanging lanterns spilled soft yellow light into small crevices of the room. Other parts were left entirely in the dark.

The pub was crowded for Christmas Eve. Draco couldn’t say that he’d ever been to Knockturn Alley around this time, but he was surprised, to say the least. Only one table was empty, and Draco made for it quickly without thinking twice. He’d have to blend in if he wasn’t going to be caught. Harry had settled at the bar, disrobing and claiming the seat next to him. 

Harry wasn’t cheating, was he? 

He was swivelling his head in a back-and-forth direction that indicated he was indeed waiting for someone to join him. Draco’s next clue was the two drinks the barkeep slid in front of him, unprompted. Bourbon, neat. Harry swirled it in his glass for a few moments before taking a cautious sip. 

The seat remained empty. 

Chattering from other patrons of the bar eased Draco’s mind just the slightest. The hum of noise was comforting in a way that he couldn’t quite place. It was nice to have so many warm bodies surrounding him. Lately, he’d only really been around Harry when he wasn’t moping around the house and entertaining Lyra when she required it. Even she didn’t stick around much anymore, especially when Harry came home. She hated him more than ever, and Draco felt achingly lonely without her to tear at the tension. 

“Darling?” A voice startled Draco away from his thoughts. 

A waitress looked down at him from a pair of obscenely high heels. She smelled distinctly of alcohol and other people. 

She placed down a napkin and then a tumbler of scotch onto the table with a smirk. “From the man —” She bent down to whisper in his ear “— over there.” 

Draco’s gaze followed a long and manicured fingernail across the room to a leather booth cloaked in darkness. He could only make out a faint outline; legs kicked up on a chair as though he were in the comfort of his sitting room. Draco could barely identify any features, but the man was huge. Tall, absolutely, with a menacing and overly-muscled frame. 

Draco would play the part if that were needed. 

He thanked the waitress and held the drink up in greeting towards the man, who returned the gesture. 

Turning his gaze, Draco focused back upon Harry, who was still alone. He ran his hand through distinctly brown hair, remembering his glamour and letting his nerves buzz in the background. There was no need to be nervous. Harry would never notice, and besides, he was far too occupied to care. 

An electric undercurrent of possessiveness was thrumming through Draco’s veins like a drug. It was inconceivable that Harry would be unfaithful. He was far too honest to do something like that. But Draco knew that the version of Harry sitting at the bar was very different from the one he’d married years ago. Hell, even the one from months ago. This one was angry and unpleasant. Uncharacteristically carnal in his desires. Draco took another sip of scotch, swallowing down burning pain with enthusiasm. 

Minutes passed before a flutter of movement caught Draco’s eye. A woman sidled into the stool next to Harry and kissed his cheek in a way that made Draco’s stomach turn. She lingered in his proximity for a moment too long.

The woman was unsettlingly beautiful in every right. Silky black ringlets draped over her shoulders, dry despite the storm wreaking havoc outside. She removed her robes, revealing arms the colour of soft caramel and a delicately accessorised decolletage. Her eyes, a soft mossy green, were positively vibrant despite the dim lighting of the establishment. 

Harry’s hand moved for her knee, and then her thigh. 

Draco saw red, downing his existing drink in one fell swoop before signalling the waitress over to replace it. He wondered if he was too obvious, silently fuming away at his strategically placed table. But this crossed a line. 

Draco wasn’t jealous. Until he was, and then all hell would break loose.

The bar was too loud for Draco to discern any of their conversation, and there were far too many people around for him to cast a discreet amplifying charm. Instead, he watched bitterly as Harry’s grip tightened on the woman’s thigh as his eyes drank in her corseted waist and moved upward, lingering on parted red lips like an invitation.

Rage swelled in Draco’s lungs, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He could hold himself together for only a moment longer before he interrupted the two. There must have been a dangerous look in his eye because a few patrons from the table across had begun regarding him warily. 

It was awfully stupid of Harry to show up without a disguise to such a public place. He supposed it was Knockturn, and no one would talk anyway, but it made Draco angrier to know that Harry wasn’t even bothering to hide in the shadows like the rest of the crowd at the bar. 

They drowned away their sorrows discreetly, finding a collective solace at the bottom of their bottles. Harry had apparently found his in the mystery woman at his side. The pair flirted back and forth as Draco knocked back his third drink and almost shattered it angrily onto the tabletop. 

Harry and the woman finally broke apart, putting space between themselves and facing the bar inconspicuously. Draco sat up in his chair unconsciously, holding back the urge to ask the waitress for something far stronger. 

The woman extracted a vial from the strap of a garter underneath her dress, a funny looking potion, pale blue in colour, and passed it to Harry in a quick motion. He tucked it gently into the pocket of his robes without a second glance. After passing over a sizable leather pouch in payment, she left his side within minutes. 

Noises from the bar had grown louder if that were possible. The pleasant humming of conversation and the clinking of glasses against wooden tabletops wasn’t pleasing and homely anymore; it was grating.

Draco was hollow, empty. Too many thoughts swam through his mind before he could count out his numbers and calm down the part of his brain that thrived on overthinking. 

There was no way Harry was an addict. Draco would have seen the signs. He would’ve known. Occasionally, Draco would fumble through their bedside drawers for a tissue or pain reliever before bed, and his fingers would always knock into cold glass in their exploration. Dreamless Sleep was an easily identifiable purple, though. Not blue. 

But he supposed Harry was more irritable and angry than ever before. That was, indeed, a sign. 

“Evening,” a voice spoke low, fracturing Draco’s concentration. 

His eyes reluctantly followed the noise, settling upon a man standing at the head of the table. His stature revealed he’d been the one to buy Draco a drink earlier in the evening. He held two burnt auburn drinks in his hands, sliding one across the table and taking a seat next to Draco. The bar had quieted at his movement but resumed raucous conversation when they realised the man’s attention had focused somewhere else. 

Draco swallowed, uncomfortable already at the implication. 

“Hello,” he said politely, accepting the drink with a nod of acknowledgement. He spared a glance at Harry, who nursed a stout at the bar without any intention of leaving. 

The man in front of Draco was sinewy, made of muscle. He was cloaked in long and menacing robes that did nothing to hide his build, and his head brushed a hair’s length away from the ceiling. A mild smile on his features held barely concealed intent. The way his mouth twitched up gracelessly reminded Draco of something he couldn’t quite place. He shifted closer to Draco, alcohol, and smoke prominent on his breath.

“Carrow.” He held a hand out in greeting towards Draco, who stiffened at the name. 

The Carrow twins had died years ago, but it was known that Alecto bore a son. She was more sadistic than her brother. She’d tortured students gleefully in the walls of Hogwarts during her reign but had only allowed a small and cruel smile to sit upon her features in the process. 

Carrow plastered on that same smile in front of him. 

“Thank you for the drinks,” Draco said hesitantly, in lieu of offering up his name. 

Carrow’s smile grew wider. “My pleasure,” he said, his voice revolting to Draco’s ear. His hand found a place on Draco’s knee, who suppressed a shudder at the touch. 

“Need anything else?” The waitress swung around again, and Draco eyed her intently, hoping she’d catch his gaze and understand the silent plea for help. 

“No,” Carrow said roughly instead, and she turned on her heel without a second thought. 

Draco wondered if excusing himself to the toilets was too obvious of an escape. 

Carrow’s piercing black eyes met Draco’s gentle grey, tearing through them with unhinged lust. He moved closer now so that his face was practically inches from Draco’s own. Hot breath spilled onto Draco’s mouth, and he felt suffocated by the man’s presence. 

Carrow licked his lips, slowly and deliberately. As though preparing himself for a meal. “You’re a pretty thing, you know?” 

Draco sucked in a shallow breath, taking a sip of his drink to regain a sense of reality that was slipping away rapidly. “Yeah?” he said uncomfortably. He hadn’t quite realised how wanting it sounded until Carrow’s pupils dilated against the stark white of his eyes. Draco averted his gaze, focusing on a nail scratch on the surface of the wooden tabletop. 

“Yeah,” Carrow replied, hand creeping up the length of Draco’s trousers, which were suddenly too tight for his taste. “Such a pretty little thing. So easy to defile something like you.” 

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes presumably wild with a panic that Carrow drew continued arousal from. 

“I’m going to make you mine.” The man spoke with forcefulness in his voice. One that indicated he didn’t take kindly to spurned advances. 

Draco sat with the impulse for a moment, wondering what might happen if he let Carrow take him home and fuck him senseless until he was bleeding, raw, and unfeeling. He wrenched the thought, self-destructive as it was, from his mind as quickly as it had come. This wasn’t a game. 

Carrow’s burly fingers brushed over the outline of Draco’s cock from underneath the table. It jumped underneath his touch, but Draco willed it to settle.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, his voice a feeble appeal against the wall of noise surrounding them. 

“You don’t like this?” Carrow chuckled, gripping harder. His eyes glittered with an insatiable appetite. “I love making boys like you hurt.” 

Draco pushed his chair back in a daze, and it made a loud, raking noise against the floorboards. A few late-night drinkers’ attentions were drawn to the scuffle. Carrow moved closer still, hands pulling Draco up from his seat and holding his arms in place with little effort. Draco fought the unwelcome hold, but he was smaller and weaker than the man who claimed what he desired. No one would interfere on Draco’s behalf anyway. They knew not to mess with the scorned sons of renowned Death Eaters. 

“Stop,” Draco rasped, his voice emerging as only a hoarse whisper. A suggestion, at best. “I don’t want this.” 

“You think I care what you want?” Carrow said, amusement colouring his tone.

Draco could feel the crackle of Carrow’s energised magic surrounding him. With such an iron grip on Draco’s side, it was clear the man was gearing to Apparate them to a secondary location.

“Carrow,” Draco warned, his voice a weak echo in his ears. He realised a second too late that his status as a Malfoy wouldn’t communicate itself across the guise of a glamour. He wasn’t safe. 

Carrow’s grip only tightened at the protest, drawing distinct pleasure from Draco’s fear. “I’m going to ruin you,” he murmured, lips brushing ever so slightly against the skin of Draco’s ear.

A flurry of motion from the periphery of Draco’s vision drew his attention before he realised much of the bar had come to a standstill at their interaction. The waitress backed off into a nondescript corner, and the bartender continued pouring out Firewhisky as though nothing was occurring at all. 

Harry’s strong figure parted the gathering crowd and moved towards him like a mirage. 

“Don’t touch him,” he growled, shoving the man’s arm away from Draco’s shoulder. 

Harry leaned into his height, looking tall and fierce even next to Carrow, who towered over him. 

Carrow’s eyes darkened at the challenge. He shifted his weight, putting space between Harry and Draco effortlessly and turning to face the person who’d dared confront him. Patrons of the bar held in a collective breath, but Harry’s eyes were unblinking and hard. 

“Harry Potter,” Carrow spat like the words were acid on his tongue. 

“Congratulations, you know my name,” Harry deadpanned, his eyes fixed threateningly on Carrow. 

“Your boyfriend, then?” Carrow scowled, angling back to Draco, who had attempted to put space between himself and the increasingly strained situation. Carrow took a slow step forward anyway to close the gap. 

But Harry was right there over his shoulder, pulling him away with a drawn wand. 

“You don’t want to do this,” he said, voice deadly calm. 

Carrow laughed, a sick and twisted thing that rotted inside of Draco’s ears. “I don’t think you realise what you’re getting yourself into, Saviour.” He leaned into the challenge, evidently at the idea of taking Harry down a peg. “This isn’t Diagon Alley. No one here will protect you.” 

Draco’s stomach turned because the statement was true. Among the warm faces and familiar conversation at the pubs of Diagon Alley, an encounter like this would hardly have broken out in the first place. Here, they had been the ones to trespass upon Carrow’s hunting ground. And by the way other people had dutifully turned their backs on the display, it was clear that he sustained the upper hand. If Carrow took Draco now, if he did brutal things to him, he’d get away with it. 

“Leave me alone,” Draco said, finding his voice steady and strong at Harry’s mere presence. He could do this. 

Carrow’s lips curled into a smile. “Now, why would I do that? What I desire, I shall have.” 

“I don’t _desire_ you,” Draco hissed, his voice low and angry. “Get away from me.” 

Draco’s newfound confidence only bolstered Carrow’s own. He grinned widely at the sudden provocation. 

“Seems like the little bird can speak for himself,” he mused, nodding his head toward Harry, who’s wand was unwavering against Carrow’s cloak. “You’re not needed here.” 

“You’re not,” Draco said hastily, suddenly embarrassed by his own need to be protected. He wanted to do this himself. Harry shouldn’t have to defend him time and time again. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed at Draco, and something discerning flickered in the green. A realisation of sorts. He launched himself at Draco without a moment’s notice, and Carrow stepped back instinctively. Draco caught sight of his own appearance in the bar mirror for only a brief second, realising that his platinum blond had begun slowly creeping back upon his hair. 

Harry took his hand, and the pulsing blackness of Apparition whisked them away. 

Draco landed with a thud onto wet ground, keeling over on all fours as nausea overcame him from the unexpected jump. He pushed strands of blond hair out of the periphery of his vision and figured his glamour had slipped down during the pub’s stressful interaction. His heart was still beating rapidly but only increased in pace when his gaze met dark eyes. 

Harry loomed over him as menacing shadows in the darkness snaked around his figure. 

They’d Apparated to an alley of some sort in a Muggle area. It had been a short and relatively painless trip, meaning they couldn’t have been far from Knockturn at all. The eerie silence of the street and a gentle yellow glow from the streetlights indicated they were in a residential neighbourhood. 

The sky cried with fierce rain that drenched them both, their clothing growing sticky and sodden against weak bodies. Draco could see his breath meet the cold air, and was frankly surprised it wasn’t snowing yet. 

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was passive in a way that unsettled Draco more than if he had simply decided to yell. 

He pulled himself off the ground, shaking out soaked shirtsleeves as he went. As his spine pressed flat against a shockingly cold brick wall, a shiver careened down his back. The rainwater overwhelming his eyes, concealed tears.

“Harry, what were you doing in there?” Draco asked, his voice drowned by the sound of rain against the pavement.

Harry shook his head in disappointment, pressing deliberate fingers to his temples. The deep purple circles under his eyes stood out against sickeningly pale skin. Almost like Draco’s natural tone. When had his appearance become so gaunt, so lifeless? Draco had been so caught up in his own mind that he’d barely noticed his husband withering away. 

This was certainly the physical appearance of an addict. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Harry said. His eyes were angry slits, contrasting furiously against his tired appearance. “You don’t get to ask me what I was doing in there. You don’t get to ask me anything.” 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Draco pointed out more weakly than he would’ve liked. “I just wanted to spend time together.” It was a vulnerable, unfounded response, and he knew it. But maybe playing the role of lonely husband would garner him a bit of sympathy. 

“Your idea of spending time together was stalking me out to a pub?” Harry asked incredulously, voice raising in pitch. 

Draco frowned. “Not exactly. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a home-cooked dinner and —” He cut himself off abruptly at the look on Harry’s face. 

A shiver wracked his body, leaving him feeling wet and miserable. 

“You’re something else,” Harry said, and his voice was layered with disgust where it should have been amused, or maybe fond. 

Draco felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I didn’t do anything wrong here,” he reasoned. “You’re the one who lied to me.” 

“You followed me,” Harry stated, without bothering to defend himself. 

“I only wanted to make sure everything was okay.” 

“I never _asked_ for that,” he sneered, advancing on Draco, who flattened himself further against the wall. “I never asked for any of this.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Your concern.” Harry’s hand caught Draco’s in a crushing grip. “I don’t need you worrying after me. I shouldn’t have to do this to you.” 

“What does _that_ mean?” Draco asked as fear tumbled out and made its presence known in his words. 

Harry smiled, a hideous parody of his typically warm one. 

Draco stepped aside evasively, but Harry had planted his feet, arms shooting out to cage his husband’s wrists between them. Senses heightening at the removal of his escape route, Draco panicked against the unmoving hold. 

“What would you have done in there if I hadn’t intervened?” Harry asked, eyes hungry and demanding, something like Carrow’s. 

“I don’t know,” Draco said because it was the truth. He would’ve been violated, probably. 

“You need me.” 

_I don’t need you_ , Draco tried, but the words drowned themselves just before reaching the surface. _I don’t fucking need you._

“You’re lost without me,” Harry continued, trailing rough and calloused fingers down Draco’s dress shirt, toying with the button of his waistcoat. 

_I’m not lost without you,_ Draco attempted. Even if the words had been spoken from his lips, he knew it wouldn’t help. 

Harry burned for him. 

“Tell me you love me,” Harry said. 

“I love you,” Draco answered. Though he noticed his mind hadn’t tortured out the response like it usually did. A part of him didn’t mean the words anymore, but he was so used to being compelled to say them that they tumbled out easily. 

Then, Draco’s heart leapt at the idea that the thistle could be working. 

The rain slowed, misting across Draco’s face in a way that would’ve been a pleasant and temporary reprieve on a summer day. The quiet street grew quieter still, every word, command, littered from Harry’s mouth was amplified in the silence. 

Harry kissed him then, a rough and uncomfortable press of lips that left Draco struggling for air. There was no care or intimacy in the action. Rather, an awful tension. Harry’s mouth moved to his jaw, sucking at the exposed space fiercely. Teeth just a little too sharp on the skin of Draco’s neck. 

Draco felt his arousal pool unwillingly in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Harry alone as much as he wanted to avoid being alone with him. But he knew this wasn’t right. 

Moments, maybe eons, passed before Draco wrenched himself away from the touch. A desperate note clung to his tone when he spoke. “Harry, I —” 

“Quiet,” Harry growled, stripping off his robes and throwing them haphazardly to the ground. 

Draco’s hands moved, bracing against Harry’s firm chest in protest. “You’re drunk,” he said, feeling distinctly inebriated himself. The world spun dizzyingly around him in a swirl and stretch of light against darkness. Harry’s lips parted in invitation. 

“I don’t – I don’t feel well,” Draco said, Harry’s touch suddenly smothering him. The comforting cool press of the wall and chilly breeze of the night had been replaced by heat and nausea from somewhere within Draco himself. He could keel over at any moment and empty the contents of his stomach onto Harry’s shoes. 

“You think I care?” Harry replied, and probably meant it, pressing the length of his body against Draco’s lithe frame. His breath reeked of liquor and the sweet perfume of the beautiful woman from the bar. 

Then, Draco remembered the blue vial. 

“Harry,” Draco said, feeling the beginnings of pain in his mind, a reminder of what controlled him. “I don’t want this.” 

He startled at the fact that the potion let him say it. The thistle seemed to be working, even if it was doing the bare minimum required of it. 

Harry was fumbling with his belt buckle, eyes driven wild with lust. “You need me,” he rasped, words slurring and incoherent against his tongue. 

He had his trousers down in an instant, turning Draco around so that the side of his face pressed uncomfortably rough against the wall. Draco struggled, but Harry had already pinned his wrists up above his head. He had to stop this. 

_Don’t_ , the voice warned at Draco’s resistance. 

A splintering ache stretched across his skull, Draco’s mind going numb with overstimulation for a fraction of a moment. The hurt wasn’t as demanding as it usually was, and Draco found himself able to hold it off with some effort. 

“Oh, Merlin.” Harry let out a pleased hum, rutting gently against him, thickening cock pressing into the space between Draco’s legs. 

“Harry,” Draco gasped, writhing against the wall, panic bubbling in his chest. 

Harry hadn’t even prepped him, and Draco was uncomfortably soft in his own trousers. 

_Don’t_ , the voice reminded. He fought it back with fervor, but it was too strong. 

Pain shattered through his head like the distinct prongs of a lightning bolt. Draco cried out, pressing his temple against the wall and forcing a deep breath. 

A part of him knew what had to be done. If it meant pain, then Draco would endure. 

He bucked violently from underneath Harry, terrified of his inability to voice his lack of inclination. Harry groaned, a needy and desperate thing that exposed unrelenting desire. He kissed him again, fierce and cutting. Draco could barely taste Harry’s lips against his, overwhelmed by the tangy metallic of his own blood. He couldn’t take it. 

Harry’s cock was pushing at his entrance now, and he was entirely too intoxicated to just listen. Draco yelped in surprise at the unwelcome press. 

_Don’t_ , the voice repeated. 

Draco shoved it aside, seeking light, free will, in even the darkest and innermost parts of his mind. He had to say this; the voice would let him if he pushed back hard enough. The thistle would help too. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to be fucked. 

He chanted the thoughts in his head like a mantra. 

The pain throbbed persistently, outstretching tendrils of feeling into his head, but it didn’t worsen at its recognition of Draco’s strong intent.

If that wasn’t permission to defy Harry outright, he didn’t know what was. 

“Stop,” Draco implored, voice rough with hardened resolve. “Not now. Please, Harry.” 

Harry turned him around again. “Want to see you,” he said, voice still thick with lust. 

“I’m saying _no_ , Harry. Get the _fuck_ off of me.” Draco cried out, beating at Harry’s chest with his released fists. 

He couldn’t remember the last time they touched without violence anymore. 

Harry startled, seemingly coming back to himself at the desperation of Draco’s actions. Something clicked in his mind, and it appeared as though he were oscillating between two wildly different decisions — to listen or continue. Maybe, Draco wondered, he had his own internal voice controlling his every action.

It was clear that Harry rode the final waves of intoxication, stumbling over himself as he extracted a limb from between Draco’s back and the brick wall. 

“Fuck,” Harry said the word slowly and drawn out like it was foreign in his mouth. He appeared to sober in the pause that followed. 

The burn hadn’t entirely removed its clutches from the soft tissue of Draco’s brain, but it had certainly eased up. He was surprised that it had allowed him such a respite in the first place. This thistle was a miracle. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, horror contorting his features. “What the fuck did I just do?” 

“You should have stopped,” Draco said, his tone dry. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to be emotional about the situation. In the moment, he’d focused more on beating the voice than his husband anyway. 

Harry sank to his knees.

“You’re pretty drunk,” Draco supplied, hoping it would let up some tension between them. He wasn’t sure how he could be so calm about it, but the thistle’s success had saved him. That was reason enough for his mind to be elsewhere. 

“That’s no excuse!” Harry shouted out because it wasn’t. 

Draco was silent, unsure what to say, and lacking desire to offer even a shred more of comfort. First Carrow, and then his own husband. It was a believable thought that men loved owning Draco. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” he said, sounding honest. 

Draco joined him on the ground, feeling a puddle of rain seep through spots in his trousers. They had both neglected to apply Impervius charms. 

“Draco, I —” Harry’s eyes widened with tears, and he removed his glasses to rub at them fiercely. “I know this is no excuse, but I’m so sorry. You know I’m not like this. I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t control myself.” 

Draco knew the feeling all too well. 

“Let’s just go home.” 

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, opening his mouth as though he wanted to apologise again. 

“Harry, I’m cold and upset. I want to be at home. We can talk about this there.” 

A pause followed. 

“Do you love me, still?” Harry asked into the silence, the question obviously self-serving.

_Say you do._

“I do,” Draco replied, as if love were ever enough.

Draco held out a hand, and Harry took it unthinkingly. “Home?” he asked. 

A nod in response followed, and Draco Apparated them just outside the picket fence of their cottage. It looked peaceful, and unmoving, a constant against the ever-changing backdrop of stars in the blackness. Draco’s fingers, his extremities, seemed bone-white against the moonlight. 

Harry wouldn’t let go of his hand. 

They found themselves inside, stripping off sopping wet clothing at the door. Draco hung the robes on the coat rack, muttering a soft _Exaresco_ that accomplished decidedly little to the rain-heavy fabric. 

Harry stood up ahead by the stairway, hand on the back of his neck. Nervous like a teenager. 

“What’s going on?” Draco asked, finally, words ringing out loud in the silence of the house. He hoped his tone hid how troubled he was by Harry’s mere presence. The floorboard squeaked in protest underneath his feet as he shifted weight from one hip to the other. “Why couldn’t you control yourself back there? We both know that’s not you.” 

Harry was clothed only in his pants, bare legs still slick with rain and mud. He sat gingerly on the third step from the landing, as though he would break it if he weren’t careful. 

He bowed his head and fixed his gaze on a spot of splintering wood that would be a nightmare if someone were to step their bare feet on it. “We should get that fixed.” 

Draco followed his line of sight but neglected to comment. “You said you couldn’t control yourself just moments ago.” He breathed in, hoping honesty was the correct path to choose. “Sometimes, I can’t either.” 

Harry’s gaze snapped to his in an instant. 

Draco joined him on the stairs. Their knees knocked together, once, twice, before he moved away, finding solace in a space away from the heat of their bodies. Draco waited expectantly, knowing if he was silent for long enough, Harry would have to fill the emptiness. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” he said, his voice trembling. 

Draco fought the urge to reach out an arm and place it protectively over the length of Harry’s back. 

“Would you have really forced yourself on me?” 

Harry was silent, and Draco accepted it as a response. 

“That’s —” Draco hesitated, running a hand through brittle hair. “It’s sick, Harry.” 

“I know.” Harry wrung his hands. “I haven’t been myself lately.” 

Draco raised a delicate eyebrow. “I’ve noticed.” He wanted an apology, not an excuse, but supposed he wouldn’t get one. Then, “Neither have I.” 

“Draco —” 

“Something’s wrong, Harry,” he said. “There’s a reason why neither of us can control ourselves around each other. There has to be something. Maybe we were cursed or poisoned? Something new, perhaps. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed the signs until now. I was using thistle. It helped me regain control for a moment there.” 

Harry startled, turning to face Draco. “You what?” 

“Milk thistle. Earlier tonight, when you couldn’t control yourself, I couldn’t either. My body, something about it, just wanted to let you do as you pleased. My mind wouldn’t let me say no.”

“I never really thought —” 

Draco gasped. “Think about it. Oh, Merlin, Harry! This makes so much sense. Of course, someone must have poisoned us to be like this. I’m not actually crazy. I don’t have a fucking talking subconscious.” His hands shook in his lap with an energised anxiousness. “I don’t know how they’ve been doing it, but it would account for so much —”

“Stop!” Harry shouted. He put a hand to his head like the information was too much for him to process. “Draco, this is rubbish. _Nothing_ is wrong.” 

“Can’t you see, though?” Draco grinned because, finally, he was free, enlightened. “Something is! I’ve been feeling it all along, and now that I know you have to, we can fix this. Together, we can fix this, and everything will go back to normal.” 

“No,” Harry said, his tone resolute and unfeeling. “This is lunacy, all of this is. Why were you even following me tonight? Something is wrong, Draco, but it’s got to do with you —” 

“I saw you at the bar,” Draco said quickly. A barely noticeable and probably unwise statement in the heavy silence of the foyer. 

Harry looked up, helpless, meeting Draco’s eyes. His mask slipped then, crashing down over his face and transforming it into a facade of cruel apathy. Draco startled at the sight, suppressing an audible gasp. He’d never seen his husband alter so quickly before. One of Harry’s greatest strengths was his emotions, his ability to feel for everyone, and everything. It was clear that ability, the one that made him truly good, had gone. 

“What did you see?” Harry asked, with a curious glint in his eye. His features were more calculating than before. 

“I, uh —” The words died in Draco’s mouth as though he’d run out of air entirely. 

Harry reached a hand out, placing it indifferently on Draco’s knee. It tightened as the seconds ticked by. 

“What did you see?” he asked again, this time his voice rough and low. Threatening. 

_Tell him._

Draco answered without meaning to when whatever curse or draught twisted it out of him. In some ways, it felt like being administered Veritaserum. A stream of words flowed unconsciously. “I saw you and that woman. She gave you a potion, a vial of something.” 

Harry’s face pinched, fear trespassing upon that mask of calm. “Shit.” He stood, stepped down, and began pacing the length of the foyer. “Fuck. Oh, Merlin.” He laughed, long and drawn out, crazed in a way that made Draco queasy. 

“What was in the potion?” Draco asked, hair standing up on the back of his arms as a horrific realisation began to dawn on him. 

There was a pause. “Get up.” 

“What?” Draco startled, surprised. 

“Get up. Now.” Harry’s voice quivered slightly with an anger neither of them had ever heard before. 

_Up_ , the voice directed, though it was unusually more gentle than Harry’s words. 

Draco’s hand shook as it grasped for the beam, and he stood on trembling legs. 

“What’s in the potion, Harry?” Draco asked again, meeting him on the landing. Gooseflesh appeared across his chest, dry from the rain but cold at their lack of heating in the house. A complicated and dangerous thought entered his mind without much basis, but a large part made sense. “You know, don’t you.” 

Everything had changed so drastically, so quickly in the span of one evening. 

“Harry, tell me what’s in the potion,” Draco managed, his throat bone dry. “What are you doing to me?” 

Harry’s eyes widened with guilt that he attempted to hide. 

“You’re poisoning me,” Draco said, taking a step closer, heart hammering away frantically in his chest. They were inches apart. 

In a quick movement, Harry reached for the coat rack and drew his wand from the pocket of his robes; holly wood pressed against Draco’s bare chest, and he didn’t dare move. 

“I hope someday you’ll forgive me for this, Draco,” Harry said, and there was an unwavering note of sincerity in his tone.”

“Wait, Harry —” 

“ _Obliviate._ ” 

Before Draco could register the words, his mind went blank.


	7. Chapter 7

**Present**

The days progressed slowly. 

The only thing Harry was sure of anymore was that Draco had been living in a fugue state for the past few years. 

It was fascinating what people could get used to once they were subjected to something for long enough. 

Harry hardly needed to give him the potion anymore. It was easy enough to sneak into his morning tea once every few days, but it hardly seemed necessary. Draco probably wouldn’t have even questioned it if Harry drugged him right out in the open, as though it were as normal as honey being stirred into his tea. He rarely had the energy to question anything anymore.

He just sat, hollow-eyed, and went through the motions of the day as though they were a chore. He ate, bathed, and slept because Harry instructed him to, but it was clear the actions weren’t his own. 

Harry should have felt guilty, really. But any regret was overshadowed by a pounding sense of relief that Draco hadn’t been able to leave him yet. He’d take this Draco, the depressive and empty one, over a happy one that wasn’t his to have. Because how could Draco be happy if he wasn’t with him? 

Harry watched the clock, nibbling at the edge of a self-inking quill, as the hand struck eight. The workday had run a bit longer than usual, but Proudfoot had promised him a hard stop hours ago, and he deserved to go home for some rest. 

They’d closed the Imperioserum case soon after they realised it was an uncontrollable substance the year before. Like Dreamless Sleep, it would just have to fester in the back alleys of Knockturn, entirely unregulated, just because the Aurors couldn’t keep up. It was a shame for Harry to know he’d actively failed at containing a substance so highly dangerous — so threatening to the general public — but he figured he’d already done his duties as Saviour of the wizarding world. Why did he have to do it all over again? 

Proudfoot caught him eyeing the clock like a meal. “You can go now, Harry.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked diplomatically, praying to God himself that he wouldn’t have to stay behind and help her finish up the endless fieldwork forms that lay on both of their desks. 

Earlier in the day, they had arrived on the scene of a domestic disturbance. A wizard had killed his wife for leaving their home without his permission. It should have bothered Harry, like it did Proudfoot and the rest of the trainees, to see all the blood and the woman’s mangled body, but he was hardly fazed. The only thing that irked him was the mountains of paperwork that came with cases such as these, and he worried he’d lose out on his evening entirely at this rate. 

“I’m sure.” Proudfoot scratched at her head absentmindedly; eyes still focused on the page in front of her. “I’m almost done here anyway, and you’re making my skin itch with all that energy. Please go.” 

Harry shrugged, gathering his things from his desk. “You know, I don’t —” he started, but was already heading for the door.

“Go before I change my mind, Auror Potter.” 

Harry held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, I’m going.” 

It was one of the warmer summer nights they’d had when Harry stepped outside of the Ministry and into the unusually light streets of London. The sun hadn’t set yet, casting a faint yellow glow over everything in sight. It was beautiful to see the city so warm and inviting like this, and sometimes Harry wondered what it would be like to live away from the country. But then again, if they did, friends would visit much more often. 

With a sharp crack, Harry Apparated just outside of his picket fence. The dove-white paint had chipped away the winter before, and Harry lacked the enthusiasm to bother repainting it. Harry walked the pathway, stepping on dead plants that crunched unpleasantly between the pavement and the sole of his boot. 

Most of the front garden had withered away after Harry had ripped out the blooming milk thistles from their root. But Harry worked at the one in the back tirelessly, still, for the sake of appearances. People usually never came through the front door anymore. No one really came at all, but when they did, Harry encouraged the use of the Floo. Somehow, it felt more controlled than any stranger entering through their front door. 

“Draco?” Harry called out as he pushed the door open. 

The door squeaked uncomfortably on its hinges, and the house was still and silent. 

“Draco?” Harry tried again, but he wasn’t worried. He usually didn’t receive a response. 

Harry closed the door quietly behind him, setting his briefcase down by the door. Draco would probably be in the bedroom as he usually was during the evenings. He’d need to be coaxed out of the tangle of sheets for dinner, but Harry would do it because he loved him. 

The smell of their bedroom was something that always stood out to Harry after he’d been gone all day and had forgotten entirely what they’d let their lives become. It wasn’t bad at all, citrusy and tangy in the way that Draco usually was, but it was also rich. Sharp in the air, cutting against the skin. 

Draco constantly occupied the room, his body, his existence stuck to every item like he’d clung to it his whole life. 

At the far side of the room, the windows were shuttered, as they always were, and Draco was splayed out on his back. He was still wearing his pants from the night before, green cotton boxers that, despite fitting him years ago, were terribly loose around the hips now. 

The sharp curve of rib underneath skin and the hard jut of hip bones were the first things Harry’s eyes raked over possessively like they were his to take. Draco could never bring himself to wear clothes anymore, the mere act of putting them on a daily obstacle. Sometimes Harry helped him, holding him in place in his lap while he wrestled a t-shirt over Draco’s small body. He was never met with any resistance. 

The flashes of anger, of callousness that had characterised his behaviour during the first few months of the potion, had dissipated soon after Harry had first taken Draco’s memories. Since then, he’d needed to a few more times, because even Draco in his altered state was still quick as a fox and continually found ways to figure things out. 

Memory charms took their toll, though, and the potion had, too. They had worn Draco down to a chip of his former self. He was nothing in comparison to what he used to be; vibrant and driven and breathtaking. 

“Draco, you should get up now,” Harry said, knowing the weight of his words. 

The bed barely shifted under Draco as he moved to sit up involuntarily, catching his legs on the side of the bedframe and staring, low and hollow, at the cabinet in front of him. 

“How was your day?” he asked, his voice brittle and cracked from disuse. 

“It was busy. Proudfoot and I caught a domestic abuse case.” 

A merciful smile flickered across Draco’s features for a brief second, before it was replaced by unwavering emptiness. Harry wouldn’t have even caught on if he didn’t recognise the irony of their situation. 

“How was your day?” Harry returned the question. 

Draco only offered a humourless laugh. 

“Why don’t you put on some clothes and help me get dinner ready,” Harry suggested, as though Draco had any other choice. He removed his uniform robes and draped them over an unused armchair. 

Draco didn’t speak, but he stood mechanically, dressing himself in a jumper and joggers that appeared as though they hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. Harry would have commented, suggested a wash or even a quick _Scourgify_ , but Draco seemed as though he were having a good day, and Harry would be damned if he was going to ruin it. 

Draco saw a Mind Healer sometimes, because Harry knew that if he didn’t, he would spiral. But Harry took great care to poke around Draco’s memory with careful Legilimency, rearranging events and happenings so as to not incriminate himself in any illegal activity. Really, it was for the best for both of them. It would crush Draco if he were to find out what had been happening to him, and Harry wouldn't risk losing him over something so trivial. 

It didn’t matter if their relationship was grey and unhappy. At least they were together. 

Draco usually stood with a practised elegance, one that had been taught and enforced for a number of his childhood years and characterised him so well. 

He slouched now, his body tired and weak, as if it barely wanted to hold itself up. 

Harry walked to the kitchen with him, and they fell into step one after the other. It felt awkward, like strangers following each other around a house that wasn’t theirs. 

“We only have leftovers, unless you want me to make something,” Harry said. 

“I’m not really hungry.” Draco sighed, rubbing at his bleary eyes, still sleep-tired from the night before. 

“I know,” Harry said, wrapping a rough hand around his small waist. “But you’ve lost so much weight, eating would be good for you.” 

“Would it?” Draco said mindlessly, fixing his eyes on a place away from Harry’s. The floor perhaps, a few feet ahead. 

“You’ll eat something. This isn’t a discussion.” 

“Okay.” 

“Set the table?” Harry asked, and Draco complied. 

A squawk from outside indicated the presence of an owl, one who’d been trying to deliver a letter for a few days now. Lyra had been chasing off the pitiful thing for a while, for which Harry was grateful. 

He opened the French doors, sunshine soaking into his skin for a moment, before plucking the post from between the owl’s beak. 

Recognising Pansy’s loopy handwriting, he placed it gingerly on a stack of unopened letters by the trellis. He didn’t have time to explain their relationship to their acquaintances anymore. 

When he was unwilling to spend the night making excuses to his friends, Harry went to Hermione and Ron’s to see Rose and Hugo and show his face for a few hours. But Draco was always “too sick” to join. 

He’d forced Draco to freeze Ginny out entirely, and other than her, he didn’t have many friends that hadn’t remained loyal to Harry to begin with. 

“Mail?” Draco asked carefully, when Harry had returned to the kitchen. 

“Nope. Owl had the wrong address, I think.” 

“Hm,” Draco said quietly, setting the last of the utensils out at the table. “ _Incendio._ ” 

The candles lit in quick succession. 

Once Harry had applied heating charms to leftovers (a summer salad and baked salmon) and brought them to the table, Draco settled into the seat across, nursing another cup of tea. 

Harry tucked in, starved from a day’s worth of action. Draco eyed his plate uncomfortably, placing a hand over his stomach. He sipped at his tea, pointedly avoiding eye contact with his food. 

“You need to eat, Draco.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Harry scowled. “We have this conversation every single day. You can’t just not eat.” 

“I can do what I want,” he said, and Harry suppressed a chuckle at the irony of his statement. 

“You’ll eat.” Harry paused for a moment as Draco’s hand quivered in his lap. “Now.” 

Draco bent over and took a bite. He chewed for much longer than he really needed to, before swallowing.

“Again,” Harry said, and Draco complied. 

They ate their meal like that most days, with Harry punctuating the silence to command another bite. That was usually how he cajoled Draco into finishing at least half of his plate, and it was probably what kept him from being severely malnourished despite his already thinning frame. 

Draco was depressed, the Mind Healer had told them. 

And really, Mind Healers weren’t supposed to go around sharing confidential information with their patient’s spouse. But Harry was the Saviour, and exceptions were made for him, as they usually were. 

“Depressed?” Harry had said, his eyes wide. “That’s not possible. He's Draco, he’s not depressed.” 

The Mind Healer, a lovely woman in her mid-forties, had given him a pitiful smile and a shoulder squeeze. “He can be both depressed and Draco at the same time.” 

“Well, how do you know?” Harry had demanded, feeling his grip on his anger slip down. 

“The symptoms he has described are extremely common among those suffering from depression. You told me that he has a hard time taking care of himself, doing the bare minimum. Not to mention that he rarely gets out of bed.” She had shrugged, as though resigned to the diagnosis. “When I spoke to him, he told me that his bed was where he felt the safest.” 

Harry hadn’t thought about it like that, but supposed it made sense. They still had sex quite a bit, but it was usually on the sofa in the evening or up against the wall, rough and dirty like it meant nothing at all. It was usually for Harry’s sake, but sometimes Draco seeked him out on a particularly good day. Sex was always something they’d done well, and even amidst all the shit in their lives, Harry clung to Draco through it. Even if it was the rough and loveless sort. 

“So what does this mean, then?” Harry had asked, incredulous. “Is he going to be like this forever?” 

“He won’t, as long as you’re there to support him through it. Right now what Draco needs is a strong sense of community. He needs to know his husband, his friends are all there for him.” The Healer had begun to scribble out notes onto a small pad. “You’re confident he has those things, right? They’ll be beneficial to his recovery.” 

“Yes,” Harry had said, without really stopping to realise that perhaps Draco didn’t. 

The Healer had ripped out the scrap of paper from the pad. “This is a prescription. He’ll need a small dosage of this potion every day, in the morning because it will interfere with sleep. Make sure he takes it with some food or it’ll upset his stomach.” 

“Didn’t you already write him a prescription?” 

“I did, but I was informed the potions were never picked up.” 

Harry had let out a noise of annoyance, because taking care of Draco was becoming a full-time job. 

“There’s nothing else I can do but give him this potion and hope he gets better?” Harry had said, worry ringing out in his tone. 

He found it easier to pretend that it had nothing to do with him at all. That he hadn’t completely broken Draco with a small mistake, a stupid potion that was supposed to fix them both. 

“Depression is common, Mr Potter,” the Healer had said, not unkindly. “He just needs to know you’re there for him during this process. He won’t get better unless he really wants to.” 

Harry had fought the urge to roll his eyes, because if anybody would be stubborn about their recovery process, it would be Draco Malfoy. 

When Harry had exited her office, he cried. He sobbed, loud and wailing in a way that had Muggles eyeing him as though he were having some sort of mental breakdown. It was the kind of crying that was ugly and too real, snot dribbling from his nostrils and tears crusting dry down his cheeks only to be replaced by fresh ones. 

He had taken the tube home that day from Russell Square. He had ridden it back and forth down the line, appreciating the kindness of strangers that gave him a small pat on his shoulder and asked him if he was okay as much as the ones who ignored him entirely as though grief were just another part of the day. 

Harry supposed in many ways, it was. 

He sat in the plastic seat, feeling a hollow ache spread across the length of his chest, permeating his senses in a way that made him claustrophobic and tired. Harry’s hands trembled, never still anymore, even when the rest of him was. 

After a few hours, he exited the station at King’s Cross, only a handful of stops away from where he had started, and Apparated home. 

He sicked up over the rose bush for reasons apart from the long jump. 

“Harry?” Draco’s voice was loud, and snapped him out of the memory entirely. 

“Sorry,” he said, taking a bite of salmon. “What did you say?” 

Draco looked nervous, gaze darting about the room like a prey searching for an escape. “I want to stop seeing that Mind Healer.” 

Harry choked, coughed, and then righted himself with a sip of water. “Completely?” 

“I don’t feel like I need her anymore.” 

“So, you feel better?” Harry said, hoping there wasn’t too much expectation in his voice. 

“I don’t know.” Draco sighed, tucking a strand of grown-out blond hair behind his ear. “I don’t feel like anything she’s doing is helping me.” 

Harry figured that would make sense, because he'd been replacing Draco’s antidepressant potion with Imperioserum every day and hoping for the best. It was a sick and selfish action, but a voice inside of Harry’s head told him he needed to do it. It was the only option. And as awful as it was, if Draco recovered, he might come to his senses and leave. 

So really, Harry was just being strategic, because he was relishing in the fact that Draco was still with him. Years later. 

“Okay,” Harry said slowly and thoughtfully. “But the other day you said it was nice to have an objective party like her to talk to when you needed to.” 

“I did,” Draco said, and his face tightened. Clearly this was a question he had been waiting to ask. “I don’t want to start a fight.” 

Harry put down his fork, and it clattered against the plate with a jarring and unpleasant noise. He narrowed his eyes. “Then don’t.” 

A long, pregnant pause followed.

“Harry, I just need someone,” Draco said quietly, as though he were embarrassed to even say such a thing.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “I’m right here.”

“I know you are.” Draco bowed his head. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking you for granted. I’m so lucky to have you to take care of me. I’m grateful that you’re putting up with me through all of this.”

The words were genuine and heartfelt, Harry knew that much, but it still stung to know that the only reason Draco even needed to be taken care of was Harry’s actions in the first place. 

“I just feel alone,” he said quietly. 

“You’re not alone, you have me,” Harry said firmly, eyes searching Draco’s for any semblance of agreement. 

The cutting _you’re not enough_ was an unspoken truth. 

“I’d like to see Ginny.” 

Harry’s gaze snapped up. “What?” 

“We should have Ginny and Pansy over for dinner. It might be fun, like the old days. I miss our friends.” 

“Draco, you know why we can’t do that,” Harry said, struggling to keep his calm. 

“No,” Draco said, his voice distressed in a way that Harry hadn’t heard it be in a while. “I don’t know why we can’t do that when it’s clearly something that would benefit the both of us.”

“You can’t see anyone when you’re like this, Draco. I’m just trying to protect —” 

“Harry, I’m miserable!” Draco shouted, tears leaking from his eyes and down the sides of his cheek like a small child. “I miss being around people, and you cooping me up in this house like a fucking animal isn’t helping me.” 

Harry stood then, clearing their plates away with a careless flick of his wand, suddenly ready to end the conversation. 

“Draco, we’ve talked about this before, seeing other people is just going to upset you.” 

Draco looked pained. “Don’t patronise me,” he said, the look he shot Harry full of venom. “I’d like to see my friends, and honestly at this point, I’m not sure why I’m asking for permission.” 

Harry stopped then, turning slowly away from the sink where he’d already begun on the washing up. “What did you say?” 

Draco faltered, drawing himself up to full height at the sight of Harry doing the same. “I don’t need your permission.” 

“Like hell you don’t,” Harry growled. He threw a plate then, without quite realising what he was doing, and it shattered against the wall by Draco’s head; shards of porcelain skittered across the hardwood. 

Draco startled, but hadn’t seemed surprised. Harry’s outbursts of anger were few and far between, but they still were a familiar fixture of their household when they did come.

“ _Reparo_ ,” Draco sighed, and the plate stitched itself back together on the ground. “You could’ve hit me.” 

“I should’ve,” Harry muttered under his breath without really meaning it. If Draco had heard, he didn’t bother to reply. 

“I don’t want to be stuck in the house all day without anyone. It’s not good for me, surely you can understand that.” 

“If you want me to take a leave of absence, I will,” Harry said, his voice sharp as he put the other plate down so he wouldn’t feel the urge to throw it again. “I’ll stay home with you.” 

“What is it, Harry? Why are you so embarrassed of me?” Draco snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

“ _Look at you, Draco._ ” Harry sighed. “You can barely shower or dress yourself without my help. You’re all skin and bones. Do you really want people seeing you like this?”

It was a low blow, Harry knew that. But he also knew it was just what was needed to get under Draco’s skin, to ensure that he’d never leave the house again without Harry’s express consent. 

Draco looked down at himself, blinking back tears of frustration. “I look fine,” he whispered. 

“You don’t, and we both know that. Until you can take care of yourself, you can’t see anyone, Draco. You rarely have good days anymore. Don’t waste them on other people.” 

“Fine,” he said, knitting his brow together as something pained crossed his features. 

He exited the room with a finality that made Harry’s head spin. 

The next evening, they were lying in the garden on the wild feather grass that blanketed most of the space, enjoying the last few moments of the day before the sun went down. Early August humidity was still characterising much of the weather, but Harry had convinced Draco to come outside for a moment. To take in the fresh air, the oxygen from the plants, the beautiful sunshine. Draco had done so unwillingly, and curled up on the blanket next to Harry as though it were cold out. 

“Suffer long enough and you can’t tell the difference between resignation and resolve.” 

“What?” Harry’s head turned at the provocation. 

Draco paused. “Someone said that to me once.” 

“Who?”

“Can’t remember.” 

“Are you suffering?” Harry asked quietly, guilty. 

“I don’t know,” Draco said, pressing himself tighter into a foetal position, arms folded protectively into his chest. Harry angled gently into Draco’s back with the length of his body. “I can’t tell whether I’m just really good at staying afloat or I’ve already accepted my fate and drowned under the weight of everything.” 

Harry was silent for a moment, but when he went to speak, Draco was already unfurling from his ball. 

“You alright?” Harry asked, feeling distinctly sure that Draco was not alright. 

“Yeah, I just need some rest.” He reached down, cupping Harry’s cheeks with cold hands, and pressed a drawn-out kiss to his forehead before heading inside. 

Which was not necessarily an odd gesture, but one that startled Harry more than it should have. Draco was more affectionate, especially with the potion’s help, but it was still a novelty whenever he chose to extend such an action to Harry at all. 

He watched Draco go, admiring the lean lines and sharp angles of his body. Pale skin flushed and red against the sticky summer heat. 

“Draco?” Harry called out. 

He turned gently, a soft glance thrown over his shoulder. 

“I love you, you know?” Harry said, intensity written across his features. “I’m difficult because I love you.” 

“I know.” 

Harry admired his husband for just a moment longer before tearing his eyes away and back to his book. He flipped the page, focusing on the author’s words, an endless stream of consciousness that wasn’t interesting enough for Harry to really invest himself in. 

That was the last moment Harry could really remember everything being okay. 

A squirrel clambered out of the vegetable patch after messing about in the planter box of bell peppers that had been left unattended for months. It hopped away happily, belly full from its improvised meal.

It had probably been an hour or two after Draco had left him alone that Harry noticed. He listened for the crack of a twig, the soft crunch of a leaf jostling underneath the blanket, but there was nothing. The air around him was eerily silent. 

A distinct chill settled over the small valley that their cottage was settled in, and Harry went cold. Something was wrong. He looked around as though the answer to what felt off was waiting for him by the willow tree in the corner, or the chocolate cosmos in the bush to Harry’s left side. But all of his plants were still and unmoving in the wind, and somehow that felt...wrong. 

Harry leapt to his feet; the blood rushed to his head, forcing him to take a beat before moving forward. He felt trapped in a dream state, moving slower than he intended to but unable to go any faster — sluggish against the impenetrable wall of time. 

“Draco?” he called out into the empty house. He breathed, attempting to slow his heartbeat at the lack of a response. 

Draco was probably sound asleep in their bed, his small body curled into the sheets like a cat napping off morning drowsiness. His husband was irritatingly predictable these days. 

So Harry forced himself to calm down and made for the bedroom, wondering what Draco would want to eat for dinner that evening. Maybe he’d cook something special for them. Something French like a coq au vin or bouillabaisse would make Draco’s day, even if he were already having a pretty good one. He loved the simple intricacy of French foods, the addition of wine wherever needed in a sea of flavour. Harry remembered they’d grown a nice batch of pearl onions in the week prior that would do perfectly in a hearty homemade dish. 

Whatever he cooked, Draco would probably whinge about how it wasn’t good for the waistline. 

In the beginning of their relationship, Harry would’ve knocked on the bedroom door when he arrived at it. A soft rap of knuckles against wood, just to warn Draco he wasn’t alone. Now, Harry went for the curved handle instinctively, finding his passage blocked by a locked door. 

“Draco?” He knocked, feeling his pulse quicken inside the skin of his neck. “The door’s locked, will you open it?” 

If Draco were napping, he probably wouldn’t have locked the door. He didn’t do it much anyway at the hands of the potion, which seemed to enjoy giving Harry easy access to the things he owned. 

Maybe it was a trick, an elaborate prank. 

“This isn’t funny,” Harry huffed, tapping his toes impatiently. 

A moment passed, and no answer came. Anxiety hadn’t really set in until Harry Accio-ed his wand and it flew around the corner, forcefully into his hand. 

“ _Alohomora!_ ” he said, his voice panicked and low with apprehension. 

The lock clicked open, the door still firmly shut. Harry reached out, steadying himself against the handle with a breath, before pushing in. 

Draco could’ve been sleeping, really, to the untrained eye. But Harry was an Auror. He’d been to this crime scene before. 

A strangled cry escaped his throat as he threw himself toward the bed, toward the lifeless body laid out atop a tangle of sheets. 

Draco was pale, more porcelain than he’d ever appeared before, like the nauseatingly sharp white of an English dinner set. His eyes were half open, faded grey peeking out halfway from underneath purple hooded eyelids. Harry looked away, suppressing the urge to throw up all over the bedside table. 

He forced his eyes down the length of Draco’s body to assess what had happened. Harry reached for his chest, ripping apart the buttons of Draco’s pyjama shirt, barely paying attention to the sounds of them clattering to the floor. He felt his chest, cold to the touch, maybe the faintest glimmer of a heartbeat underneath a map of scars.

Harry barely registered himself sending a Patronus to Ron. He’d alert the Aurors, which would cause an enquiry, but Harry needed a Healer and he needed one fast. 

“Draco, please,” Harry implored, paying no mind to the tears dripping down his cheeks. “Please, stay with me.” 

The sound of glass shattering against the hardwood startled Harry for a moment. He bent over the bed quickly to see remnants of his Dreamless Sleep bottle scattered across the ground.

“Fuck,” he gasped, rummaging through the drawer on his side of the bed. None of his distinctly purple liquid was found. 

Draco must have taken the whole damn bottle, when Harry only needed the smallest sip to knock him out completely in the nighttime. 

Harry’s fingers were down Draco’s throat in an instant, seeking out the release of soft fleshy tonsils. Harry felt for a place as far back as he could before pressing down. Draco tensed from underneath him as Harry turned him on his side. He dribbled saliva down the corner of his mouth, but nothing came up that would’ve given Harry any relief. 

“ _Reenervate!_ ” he shouted stupidly, knowing well enough that a counter charm to a stunner wasn’t going to do anything useful. 

Harry wailed, a wolfish howl of a cry, against Draco’s body. He moved him up into his lap, despite his limp figure lolling about like a ragdoll. His eyes were hazy and glazed over like they’d never blink again. Draco had such dancers' feet, bony and knuckled and a little blue, splayed out on either side of the mattress.

But he was breathing, a soft and shallow thing that sounded more like a wheeze. 

“Draco?” Harry rasped, pushing hair out of his face and feeling his forehead. “ _Why_ would you do this?” He hiccupped wildly, uncontrollably, through the cries. 

But Draco only smiled, a soft tug upward on either side of his mouth as though he were satisfied, happy even. His fingers twitched, pressing gently into Harry’s, before letting them go entirely. 

His eyes opened lazily, and they were a blinding silver. He was euphoric in a way he had never been before, careless and open and free despite Harry’s unflinchingly tight hold on his body. His jaw went slack as he pressed tighter into the space between Harry’s sternum, as though laying himself to rest. 

Then, Draco was still. 

“I’m so sorry.” Harry bawled, tears swimming lazily through his vision as he clutched Draco closer to his chest. “I never meant for this to happen. If I could go back in time, I’d change everything. I would do anything, Draco, anything. Oh, God —” 

Harry paused for a moment as his magic stretched out in long hot tendrils around his body. Seconds later, he shattered every window in the house.

–––

Everything was white.

Blindingly so. A kind of white that made one have to squint their eyes when being faced by it. The kind of white that was disconcerting and clinical and too bright to be natural or comforting.

“— yes, correct. And it’d be pertinent to inform any close family members about his decision whenever you get the chance.” 

“He doesn’t need _these_.” There was the sound of something paper-thin hitting the floor. “And I am his family. I don’t have the time for this right now. I —” 

“Mr Potter —” 

“It’s Auror Potter to you,” someone — Harry — snarled. 

Someone else cleared their throat. “My apologies, _Auror_ Potter, but I stand by my statement. I cannot in good conscience release him back into your care until we’re sure he won’t be of any danger to himself.” 

Draco blinked. And then he blinked again. The white from before had faded into something more yellow. Not comforting at all, but less harsh as he adjusted to the visuals around him. 

He was in a bed, maybe located at the center of the room, and linen white curtains had been drawn around the bedside. Harry and a Healer, maybe, were speaking from just beyond the barrier, clearly unaware that Draco had woken at the noise. 

Draco moved to sit up slowly, so as to not draw much attention to himself. But magical technology had a mind of its own and began beeping loudly — sounding some sort of alarm. The curtains were pulled back not a second later. 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, eyes wide with relief. He moved forward, arms outstretched. 

Ron was beside him, gripping his cloak with white knuckles, pulling the skin taut over his hands. 

“Aurors Potter, Weasley, I’m going to need you to move back.” The Healer sidestepped Harry, who was grasping at the bedside. “Please escort them out.” 

Harry began to protest as an older Healer all but threw them out the door. The room was quieter after Harry had left it. 

Draco felt relieved. Safe. 

A team of nurses entered through the same door moments later to disrupt the calm, bustling around Draco and checking vital signs and reflexes. 

Draco blinked again, blearily, as though he were seeing the world for the first time in a long time. 

He was later informed it had only been a couple of days. 

“Mr Malfoy.” Wandlight shone down upon his eyes, and he flinched at the light. “Welcome back.” 

“Water,” Draco managed, his throat pitifully dry, voice unusually cracked. 

A Mediwitch held a cool glass to his lips, and Draco drank like he’d been stranded in the Sahara Desert for years.

“Slowly, love,” she said, wrangling the glass away from his prying, insistent fingers. “You’ll have to pace yourself or you’ll be sick.” 

Draco nodded, swiping his tongue over his lips once, twice, and then three times, before realising it was making his mouth feel even more dry than before. 

Once the Mediwitch moved away, the stony-faced Healer turned back to face him. “Do you remember why you’re here, Mr Malfoy?” 

“Yes,” he said, feeling his face lose colour. “I do.” 

“Because of your attempt and other circumstances, we’ll have to keep you under watch.” 

Draco shifted his weight in the bed. “Other circumstances?” 

“When you first arrived, there was little hope that you were going to make it. Against all odds you pulled through, and we placed you in a magically-induced coma to stabilise your cognitive function and allow your body to heal — to wake up on its own. During this time, we ran some standard tests.” The Healer paused, his eyes imperious. 

“What does that mean?” Draco asked, finding himself growing impatient. 

“There were extremely high, practically lethal doses of an unknown potion in your system. Your husband may have missed the signs, but our tests cannot hide the reality of your situation.” 

Draco blanched. “Healer, I assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

The Healer’s eyes narrowed. “Mr Malfoy, we know you’ve been abusing substances for some time now. Tests indicate this has been in your system for years.”

Draco sat up in his bed, his back ramrod straight, mind dizzying at the sudden action. “Healer, you must have mistaken me with another patient. I have never in my life abused any potions, nor have I ever intended to. This is all I mistake. Please, can I speak with Harry, he’ll know —” 

“I’ve spoken with Auror Potter already. There are people here who can help you, but unfortunately, in light of recent events, you’ll need to stay to be monitored. Especially as you come down from years of potions abuse. Withdrawal can be extremely arduous on the body. We can suggest numerous rehabilitation centers that would be happy to take over your care after this initial stage.” 

“You’re joking.” Draco scrambled, disentangling his legs from the sheets and attempting to stand up. “This is some sick joke. You’re not being serious.” 

“Denial is a very common reaction —” 

“I am _not_ in denial,” Draco snarled, tugging sharply at the intravenous wires in his arm. “I have to go home. Harry!” he called out to the door, hoping he could be heard from the other side. 

“Mr Malfoy, please stay still or I’ll have no choice but to sedate you.” The Healer spoke in a calm and even tone that upset Draco further. 

Either this was a joke, or he was living an awful nightmare and would wake up any second to the comfortable familiarity of his bed. He reached again for the IV, before a group of nurses began to hold his arms away. 

The Mediwitch from earlier spoke out in the thrums of chaos, settling Draco’s mind with only the understanding in her voice. “I’m going to give you something to calm you down now, dear. Please hold still for a moment.” 

Draco couldn’t, though. His mind was wild with panic and rage at being held against his will for something he had never done. His therapist had prescribed antidepressants a number of years ago, but that was all legal. Draco struggled against the group of wizards holding him down, feeling repulsed by the unwanted touch. 

Quickly, a hand pressed into his forehead, holding his head back down against the pillow. Another opened his mouth, tipping inside something that tasted suspiciously of nothing at all. Sleeping Draught perhaps, Draco thought, as the images around him swirled into darkness. 

It was only a number of days after he had woken that they moved him to Janus Thickey. 

“You’re withdrawing,” Healer Clove said when Draco had sicked up in the bin for the third time that morning. 

He’d grown quite accustomed to her presence, and she’d insisted he could call her by her name alone. 

“I think I know that at this point,” he huffed, reaching for a cleaning draught by his bedside that tasted of fresh mint and citrus. 

She offered a laugh, clearing the contents of his stomach with a flick of her wand. “Some people need to be reminded.” 

“I’m not _some_ people,” Draco said bitterly. “When can I see Harry?” 

“He’ll come when he’s ready, Draco. You know I can’t force him.” Clove sighed, propping herself up on the edge of the bed. “He’s here every day, though.” 

“But he won’t come in and see me?” Draco said, unsuccessful in his attempt to conceal the sadness of his tone. 

“He’s hurt. I know you were hurting too, and that’s why you did what you did, but we must think about what this is like for him as well.” 

And Draco did think about it. He knew a part of his husband had probably died the day he discovered Draco’s body in their bed. 

Draco just couldn’t take it anymore. 

He was sick and angry and tired all the time. The voice in his head had grown hateful and resentful of everything that wasn’t to do with Harry. And what kind of a life was that? Answering to a subconscious that didn’t even have his own best interests in mind. A voice that caused him unending agony. 

What kind of Malfoy was if he just let himself deteriorate? Draco’s pride was a wily beast when it was allowed outside of its cage. 

When he’d told his Mind Healer about the voice, she’d written it off as a symptom of his depression. When he had told her about his hallucination, she’d told him that he was broken. Things in his head weren’t working right and wouldn’t until he started getting serious about taking his medication. 

Which had confused Draco, because he had been taking it religiously, hadn’t he? 

He’d thought about killing himself, ending his suffering, for ages by the time he actually attempted to. But earth-shattering headaches kept him from acting upon those impulses. He knew it was the worst pain he would ever feel in his life. Something far worse than the most terrible kind of torture imaginable. 

He figured it hurt so badly because his subconscious knew that was how Harry would feel if Draco were to be successful. 

Draco broke away from his thoughts. “He really won’t see me?” 

Clove sighed, affectionately patting his leg. “Give him time. He’ll come eventually. In the meantime, you have a few other people waiting outside for you, but I don’t want to overwhelm you so early.” 

“I’d like to see them,” Draco said, surprised anyone had bothered to stick around for him. He hadn’t received visitors since arriving at St Mungo’s, but wasn’t sure if it had been hospital policy or that no one had wanted to see him at all. 

Minutes later, Clove opened the door and his family came rushing in. 

Draco’s legs grew liquid as he swung them over the side of his hospital bed. But he was determined to stand, if not just for one hug. He swore as his unsteady feet hit the cold ground, feeling socks slip a little on the tile.

“Steady there,” Ginny said softly, but there was a silent anger to her words. “Look at you.” 

Draco remembered catching a glimpse of his appearance in the mirror when he’d been in the bathroom just hours before. 

Purple hollow cheeks and black eyes plagued his snow white skin. Any colour in his face was replaced by a sickly grey hue that made him look much older and frailer than he was. 

It was an appalling sight to see, and he didn’t blame the group for their gasps when they’d first seen him upon entry. He’d lost a fair bit of weight too, and Clove kept insisting he eat more during meals. But his appetite was small and tired from years of neglect. 

“How did Harry let you get like this?” Pansy asked, tears filling her eyes. “This isn’t right.” 

“I’m not his responsibility.” He shrugged, allowing Ginny to fold him into a warm embrace.

“You are, though, on some level.” Ron grumbled. He was standing next to Hermione, who had just emerged from behind Mrs Weasley's quivering frame.

“He should have told us. We all would’ve pitched in to help,” Hermione said. 

Draco felt a small flare of anger. He didn’t _need_ Harry’s help. Quickly, he braced himself for a shock of pain at the thought alone. But it didn’t come, and Draco unscrewed his face. 

Hermione wrapped her arms around Ron’s waist, pulling him closer as though she was afraid he would slip away. Ginny and Pansy corralled Draco back into bed with only a few weak objections, and had taken seats on either side of him. Mrs Weasley was at the head, her hands pressed into white fists at her side. 

Draco looked to the room, a conscious collection of so many lives being lived, feeling a pang of jealousy at their mere existence. What he had been doing all this time couldn’t be classified as such.

“There wasn’t much to help with.” Draco looked at his hands, embarrassed by the attention. “I put myself in this position.” 

“No,” Mrs Weasley said sharply, speaking for the first time since she’d entered the room. “You’re sick, dear. You can’t blame yourself.” 

Draco did, even if he wasn’t going to voice it out loud again. 

“We’ll give you some space with these two, Draco,” Hermione said, biting her lip nervously as she spoke and gesturing at Ginny and Pansy. “We just wanted to pop in and see you. So you know that we’re here if you need anything at all.” 

Draco’s lips upturned into a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Hermione.” 

She shuffled out then, with Ron and Mrs Weasley on her heels. 

“Can we get you anything?” Pansy asked. “Coffee?” 

“A coffee would be wonderful.” Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m exhausted.” 

“I can’t imagine why,” Ginny said dryly, but she clutched tighter to his wrist as though he was going to disappear. 

“Alright, I’ll be back,” Pansy said, kissing the corner of his forehead gently before leaving the two of them alone. 

Draco looked down awkwardly at his bedsheets, fixating on a loose thread at the seam. There were a few moments of empty silence. 

“Your mum is on her way.” 

“I know,” Draco said, his stomach squeezing at the thought.

“Why would you let this happen to yourself?” Ginny said, her voice almost a whisper. 

“I don’t know,” Draco said truthfully, feeling his eyes blur with tears. “I didn’t feel like I had any options left.” 

“You always had me.” 

Draco knew that was true, but couldn’t bear to tell her that Harry had been forbidding him from seeing his friends. It was an embarrassing violation of his autonomy. Instead, he stayed quiet. 

“Draco, none of us knew you were struggling with depression, let alone addiction.” 

Draco’s gaze snapped up, eyes searching Ginny’s for more information as to how she even knew. Had Harry really told everyone?

The words _I’m not an addict_ were on the tip of his tongue, but he supposed that would be a lie. He was actively withdrawing. Terrible migraines, night sweats, and constant nausea were clear indicators of that fact. He was coming down from something, but everything was still fuzzy in his brain. He wasn’t quite sure what had been in his system to begin with, and if the Healers couldn’t figure it out, how could he? 

“We all knew something was wrong, that there was a reason Harry was keeping us away from you.” 

“It wasn’t Harry,” Draco lied, automatically defensive, then surprised that his mind hadn’t pushed him to say it. 

“So you’re telling me that you willingly stayed away from me, from all of us, for the past year,” Ginny said, her eyes hard, her mouth a thin and unmoving line. 

Draco’s silence was enough of an answer. 

“This is what I’m talking about, Draco. You’re twenty-eight now. I’m not blind or stupid. I know that you’re trapped in a marriage you don’t want to be in and this is just one more sign from the universe that something has to change.” Ginny moved herself up on the bed, sitting cross-legged between Draco’s legs. 

“I know,” Draco said, shaking his head, avoiding eye contact. “After all of this, something has to change. But I can’t just leave Harry.” 

Ginny looked sad. “We love Harry and want what is best for him too. But this relationship is taking a toll on both of you.” 

“I don’t know if I want to leave him.”

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just wish you could see, especially after all of this, that being with him is killing you.” 

Draco swallowed, his throat tight. 

Pansy returned only moments later, with coffee and promises that they’d be back to visit but Draco really should get some rest because he looked “absolutely terrible.” 

After they cleared out, Draco thumbed through the pages of a glossy magazine, before Clove demanded he get his lazy bum out of bed and go for a walk. 

“I’m barely wearing any clothing.” Draco frowned, surveying his magical non-slip socks and patient gown. “You want me to walk around like this?” 

“Oh, come on,” Clove teased, grabbing his arm and hooking it into her own. “No one is dressed to impress in here.” 

Draco’s first instinct, to shy away from her touch, was replaced by a sense of gratitude. He felt comfortable around her in the way that he was sometimes comfortable around strangers. There was nothing to answer to. No preconceived notions about his character to be disproven. 

“Can I ask you something?” Draco began, surprised at his own initiative. They rounded the corner and entered a hallway, cluttered with recovering patients and their overseers. 

“Of course.” Clove tightened her hold around him, but the feeling was consoling rather than claustrophobic. 

“You probably get this from a lot of patients,” Draco started as they continued past a handful of Mediwitch break rooms. “And I may sound entirely crazy.” 

“Alright.” Clove eyed him cautiously. 

“I would swear under Veritaserum that I’m not an addict. Harry would too. He knows I would never do something like this.” 

“Draco,” Clove said, his name slow and sorry on her tongue. “You _did_ intentionally overdose, and you’re struggling with your mental health. That’s not to say you won’t get better and grow from this experience, but it is the reality of your situation.” 

“You’re not wrong,” Draco said because she wasn’t. He appreciated that she was direct without being unkind. “But I have a feeling —” he scratched a spot on the back of his neck uncomfortably “— something isn’t right.” 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Something is _missing,_ ” Draco said. His skin dotted with gooseflesh. “It’s right there, on the tip of my mind, but I just can’t remember it.” 

“Healer Clove!” a Mediwitch called from down the hall, breaking Draco from his musing. “You’re needed in 3A.” 

Clove tipped her head. “Well, that’s my cue. I’m sorry you feel like that, Draco. I’m hopeful that you will remember.” 

She bounded down the hall, her shoes squeaking against the tile. 

Draco walked a lot during his time in the hospital. Aimless forays through the many hallways and wards were some of the highlights of his day. He was surprised to know that the Healers allowed him so much free time — a part of him figured that his time at St Mungo’s would be more strictly scheduled. 

The effects of coming down from whatever unknown substance he’d been ingesting, provided him with unbridled curiosity. He loved being by himself, without the pressure to continue a conversation, maintain a facade, or kneel at the hands of the pain-inflicting demon inside of his head. 

Harry still refused to visit him, and it had been just days shy of two weeks. 

Wind howled against the glass of Draco’s hospital room, branches relentlessly pounding against the panes. Late August rainstorms were always the muggy, sticky kind. But Draco enjoyed it from the cool indoors, awaiting his mother’s inevitable presence in the already too cramped room. 

“Draco,” she said, her shoulders tense and rigid as though something was holding her back straight up. 

She’d visited with him every day since she’d taken her Portkey in, but still always worried about as a mother would. 

“Good morning,” he said, his smile softening against his lips. 

“Your Healers said they wanted to talk about a new course of treatment this morning. I wondered if you’d allow me to be in the room while they told you.” She perched on the edge of his bed, in the least Narcissa Malfoy-like manner he’d ever seen. It might have been her attempt to be comforting. 

“Sure,” Draco said, noncommittally. 

The team of Healers tasked with his case had worked tirelessly to try and convince him that he was, indeed, an addict. But they’d failed on numerous occasions, and Draco’s resolve was rock hard. Anything new they wanted to try on him wouldn’t work. 

It was only a moment later when a small knock on the door announced Clove’s arrival. 

She came to meet him with a copying quill and parchment hovering beside her and a few familiar-faced trainees in tow. 

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy,” she said, the perfect picture of an imperious Healer when Narcissa was around. She shot him a wink anyway when Narcissa greeted the others in the room. 

“I heard something about an alternative treatment method,” Draco said, the words foreign and abrasive on his tongue. 

Clove came closer, resting delicate fingers atop the side of the bed. Draco knew It was the closest gesture of comfort she could offer with his mother at his side. 

“I wanted to discuss a new avenue with you. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen much progress in your treatment. While your physical symptoms are disappearing, I worry about mental ones.” 

Draco began to interrupt, but Clove regarded him with a stern eye that forced his mouth closed. Narcissa seemed pleased at this. 

“There’s a plant in trials here at St Mungo’s. It is colloquially known as milk thistle. You may know of it. We select candidates for trial with the substance based on the characterisation of their addiction. Seeing as much of your journey toward recovery will be more mental than physical, we find you to be a good match for this study.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “So you’re saying because I’m apparently in denial, this flower is going to fix me.” 

Clove shook her head, clearly hiding amusement. “I’m saying that milk thistle could be extremely beneficial in your recovery, and I think there’s no harm in giving it a try.” 

“I don’t want to be some sort of test subject.” 

“You won’t be. We’ve been using it to aid patients for years, and it’s only still in trials due to the volatility of its synthetic counterpart in labs.” 

“Alright,” Draco said slowly. “So it’s just going to be milk thistle.” 

“Yes. Some of its sap crushed into your tea should help.” 

“What exactly will it do?” Narcissa asked, amassing the room’s attention. 

There was a brief silence before Clove gathered herself to respond. It was only natural to be intimidated by Narcissa. “While there are no guarantees, milk thistle has been known to clear the mind effectively. In therapy, Draco mentioned hearing a voice in his head. This is common among many patients experiencing hallucinations, and the thistle should aid in removing those entirely. Additionally, Draco’s denial of his condition hinders his recovery and only extends his stay in our ward. We want him to get better too, and this will help.” 

Draco suppressed the petulant urge to roll his eyes again. As much as he loved Clove, her words seemed to be lifted straight from a textbook. 

Either way, if the thistle didn’t work, there was no harm done. 

“I’ll try it,” Draco said, and Clove’s eyes glinted with pride. 

A trainee brought forth a tray, and with a wave of Clove’s wand, a steaming cup of tea and a white substance beside it appeared on the surface. She carefully poured the liquid in, giving it slow and deliberate stirs. 

“Finish the cup, please, and I’ll check in with you this evening.” She squeezed Draco’s leg and exited as quickly as she’d come in. 

Draco took a tentative sip of his tea. 

It tasted no different than his usual cup at all, but there was something oddly familiar about it. He smacked his lips together, searching for the feeling again in his next taste. Again — something strangely stuck out. 

“Hmm,” he said aloud. 

“Draco?” Narcissa asked, her head tilting curiously to one side. “Does it taste like anything?” 

He downed the tea quickly, taking no care in the fact that it burned through his throat. 

“It tastes _so_ familiar,” Draco said, eyes widening at the empty cup. “I’ve tasted this before. And the smell —” He cut himself off, his vision blurring. 

“You’re worrying me,” Narcissa said, moving to stand. “I’m going to fetch Healer Clove. You may be having a reaction.” 

“No, don’t,” Draco managed, knuckles whitening where they pressed against the bedsides. 

Quickly, it was as though every moment of darkness had been shocked into light. His head cleared. 

There it was. The truth. 

_“I’ve been working with St Mungo’s on some research with Silybum Marianum. It’s a peculiar plant, you see, but it’s worked like a charm in Janus Thickey. It walks a fine line between magical and Muggle; it’s one of the few that does.”_

_Draco’s interest had been piqued. “The Janus Thickey Ward? What does it do?”_

_“We’ve been making strides with patients who have issues with self-control. The Silybum helps cases involving drug or alcohol addiction or even something like a food or sex addiction. It’s been a miracle with patients who act on impulse and can’t break themselves away from the voice inside of their head telling them they need to do something,” Neville had explained._

Draco gasped, one hand coming up to cover his mouth and hush a strangled cry creeping up the length of his throat. 

_”The voice inside of their head telling them they need to do something.”_

Draco did cry out, pressing fingers to his temples as a rush of information eclipsed his senses. It was like a door had been unlocked in his mind. Memories came rushing through. 

_“Honestly, I’m surprised more people don’t use them at home since they’re so easy to grow.”_

A flash of Draco crushing small leaves together in his palm. Stirring something milky-white into his tea. 

Then, he was in an alley. Rain pouring down from the skies, splashes of dirty water from drainage pipes in his hair. 

_“Tell me you love me,” Harry said._

_“I love you,”_ Draco watched himself say. 

_“Harry, I don’t want this.”_

_“You need me,” he rasped, and his hand was pressing at a bulge in Draco’s trousers._

Draco’s stomach turned, hands feeling clammy and slick against the sheets where he clutched them. Narcissa loomed over him, dabbing sweat away from his head. He heard her call out, maybe for Clove, but the words were jumbled in her mouth. 

The sound of bees. Buzzing in tandem at the front of their hive. Flowers. Milk thistle. Remembering. 

_“Get up,” Harry said._

_“What?” Draco rasped, surprised._

_“Get up. Now.”_

_“What’s in the potion, Harry?”_

Draco stood from his bed, legs giving way underneath him as he crumbled to the floor. His mother was at his side in an instant, but he pushed her away, feeling overcrowded. A yell, not from inside of his mind, but maybe from his mother. Clove opened the door. 

_“Harry, tell me what’s in the potion,” Draco managed, his throat bone dry. “What are you doing to me?”_

Then, _”Obliviate.”_

Clove levitated him quickly, placing him gently back onto the bed. Draco went still, realising he’d been thrashing before. Narcissa was at the corner of the bed, a hand furled protectively around Draco’s bare, bony ankle. 

“Draco,” Clove said, formalities aside. She cast a few charms that Draco recognised as diagnostics. “Can you hear me?” 

The room was silent save for the hushed click of the grandfather clock on the wall. It seemed like the people around him were holding their breaths, awaiting something. A sign. 

“I want to see Harry,” Draco said through gritted teeth. 

“He won’t —” Clove began. 

“Tell him I know.”

–––

Draco sat in the hospital bed like a sight for sore eyes.

“Hi,” he said, as though Harry’s heart hadn’t nearly given out in the waiting room.

“Can I sit?” 

“Sure,” Draco said, angling his head at a chair. 

Harry pulled it up an arm’s length from the bed, as though they were colleagues, maybe distant friends. Not husbands, or life partners. 

Draco beckoned him closer, and a wave of relief slowly crested through Harry’s chest. He knew Draco would never forgive him, but he also knew he wouldn’t be Harry if he didn’t at least hope for such an outcome. 

Harry moved the chair, wincing as it screeched a grating cry out against the tiled floors. He hated being in St Mungo’s. It was a sterile and cheerless environment at best. 

He remembered the love in their garden. The way Draco’s gelled hair used to curl in the humidity of countryside summers. How little mites used to peck at their ankles until they were raw and itchy. Harry would pick at the scabs until they were red, even when Draco would bat his hands away and smooth aloe over his aching legs with the most delicate of fingers. Harry loved those moments, when he and Draco spread out a blanket in the grass and rested after a day of giving life to the plants around him. 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, the words barely able to move past his lips. His crimson robes suddenly seemed like the only colour in the room. 

Draco cocked his head, catching his bottom lip in his teeth. “Harry, I’m going to say this once and hope that I never have to again.” 

There was silence in the room as he awaited Draco’s statement.

“I have never hated anyone in my life more than I hate you at this moment.” 

The wedding ring Harry toyed with in his fingers fumbled, clattering to the ground and creating an unseemingly sharp noise against the quiet. 

Harry’s terror, his fear was almost paralytic. He dropped his head, refusing to meet Draco’s eyes. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Someone had once told him that the most dangerous kind of man was one in denial. 

“After all this.” Draco sighed. “Really?” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come see you earlier. I was overwhelmed.” 

“ _You_ were overwhelmed.” Draco laughed, a sick and cruel sort that rang through Harry’s ears unpleasantly. 

“I was surprised,” Harry said dumbly, wanting to take the words back the second they left his mouth.

“How could you have been surprised that something like this would happen?” Draco said, and the disappointment in his tone was enough to allow a few tears to squeeze out of Harry’s eyes. 

“Draco, really, I have no clue what you’re on about. I think we should just go home,” Harry said nervously, fidgeting in his seat.

He really wanted to have the decency to confess. Draco deserved at least that much. But something inside of him stopped him from doing so. Because if he did, he’d never have Draco back in the way that he wanted. 

In the weeks that Draco had been in the hospital and the potion had worked itself out of his body, Harry had been met with a withdrawal of his own. Locke’s words had stuck with him for some time. He knew the potion had influenced his emotions, fixated on his temper and amplified it. Sobering up from it had been an intense shock. 

He’d forgotten his wedding vows. 

All he really wanted was for Draco to be happy. 

“I don’t have the time or energy to wonder why you might have done something like this,” Draco’s voice wavered, choking back tears that Harry knew were already coming. “But I want you to know that this is over.” 

“What?” Harry’s eyes snapped up, bewildered. 

“You’ve wasted years of my life,” Draco said, his voice low. His hands clutched the bedsheets in an iron grip. If his nails were sharp or long enough, they would have ripped through the fabric entirely. 

Harry wept. It was a sob that wracked through his body, but it was silent, pleading. Desperate in a way that Harry never had been before. 

“God, forgive me.” Harry gasped for a breath, tears streaking down his cheeks. 

Draco sat up straighter, his pupils coal black and his voice resigned. “God isn’t here.” 

A moment passed, and Draco allowed Harry to cry to feel, to witness the extent of what his actions had caused. 

“Come here,” Draco said, and Harry complied. 

His husband pulled him close, pressing a chaste and final kiss to his forehead in an almost clinical manner. 

“I think it’s time for you to go.” 

“I love you,” Harry said sadly. 

Draco squeezed his hand. Harry could only hope that it was his way of saying it back.


	8. Epilogue

**Five Years Later**

Draco opened the door, feeling the rush of Muggle London overwhelm his senses as it always did when he left Healer Rubin’s. For reasons unknown, the man had chosen to place his office directly in Holborn, a district Draco didn’t particularly like. 

He had been seeing the same Mind Healer for a number of years. Their sessions weren’t getting any easier, but Draco was always getting better. He knew that much.

A quick Patronus to Ginny confirmed his presence at dinner that evening. She and Pansy barely had any free time with the baby, and apparently, Molly had insisted her youngest grandchild stay for the evening. Nobody was going to argue with her. 

Draco removed his Muggle cell phone from his pocket, dialling out a number to call. It was a clunky thing with a screen that, when touched, shifted into different images and shapes at the user’s will. Draco quite liked it, though he would never admit it to anyone, as it reminded him of magic. 

“Hello?” The voice at the other end was staticky and unclear. Holborn never had good service. 

“Greg,” Draco sighed, falling into step behind businessmen leaving the workplace for the day. “Why you insist I contact you with this thing I’ll never understand. Owls are far easier.”

Draco could practically hear his eyes roll in the silence. “Only you would think that.” 

Draco scoffed, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Luna wanted me to ask if you were free this evening. Ginny and Pansy are hosting dinner at the house.” 

“Luna asked?” Greg said, and Draco could feel the inquisitive smile across the phone. 

“She did indeed.” Draco turned a corner. “I’d take a guess and say she might have a thing for you.” 

“A thing,” Greg squawked, flustered. “Don’t be daft, Draco. She’s _Luna_.” 

“Yes, I’m aware of that fact already.” Draco pressed a finger to the space between his eyebrows. “Just tell me you’ll be there?” 

“Yeah,” Greg said gruffly, clearly attempting to hide excitement. “I will be.” 

Draco ended the call, a smile playing upon his lips. 

He’d grown to love his friends in the years after his separation from Harry. They’d been his support system, his foundations. 

And no one but Healer Rubin knew the entire truth about his situation, which was why Ginny and Pansy, and oftentimes even Luna saw Harry when it was appropriate. Christmas holidays were always awkward for their friends. But Draco insisted they should never choose sides. 

He’d thought about the idea of turning Harry in, because, well, what he’d done had been all kinds of profoundly illegal and manipulative. But Draco couldn’t bear the thought. Harry was sick. He didn’t deserve punishment; he needed help. And Draco would only be stooping down to his level if he were petty enough to play the revenge game. 

The Draco from before the potion would have sold the story to the _Daily Prophet_. The Draco from after was content to let it live in the past. 

He had wanted to keep their terrible years to himself anyway, but in a strongly worded letter, he told Harry he would do so only if he sought out the help that he needed. It was clear the Imperioserum hadn’t only affected Draco’s mind. 

Still, he hadn’t actually seen Harry since he’d left him behind in their garden. 

It had been a moment of clarity and peace for Draco that he’d found to be empowering. Forging his own path in life was something he’d been working on. And well, he’d been doing it splendidly. 

He had returned to his job at Gringotts, and they had welcomed him back with open arms. He had been one of their best. 

Things had slid back into place faster than Draco had expected after that. He had moved into Ginny and Pansy’s spare bedroom for a few months, before feeling comfortable enough to live independently and find a place. Now he loved his contemporary flat in the heart of a wonderful neighborhood that smelled, in the most pleasant way, of bergamot and strong African coffee.

Draco never drank tea anymore. He didn’t have the stomach for it. 

He took the tube as close as he could to Diagon Alley during the weekday and then Apparated the remaining distance. Odessa hand-delivered his breakfast unfailingly each morning with a kiss to his forehead and wrote to his mother that Draco was eating and sleeping adequately. Best of all, he’d surrounded himself by people of all kinds — both Muggle and wizarding. 

He relished the company of others after having been starved of it for so long. 

Draco retrieved his phone again, this time dialling Pansy. The novelty of just speaking to someone for no reason still hadn’t worn off. 

“Yes?” Pansy snapped from over the line when the receiver clicked in confirmation. 

“Good evening to you too, Parkinson.” Draco laughed, hiking his coat up over his shoulders in the chilly winter air. 

“You’re not calling to cancel, are you? Ginny’s been at it all day in the kitchen, and she’ll be disappointed if you skip out on whatever godforsaken meal she’s tried to cook.” 

“I can hear you!” Ginny’s voice sounded from the background. 

Draco laughed out loud, something he often did these days.

“She’s an absolute nightmare.” Pansy sighed and then yelped as something clattered against the floor. Ginny must have thrown something. Her usual weapon of choice was a pot lid. 

“No, I’m not calling to cancel,” Draco said. “I’m just finishing up with Healer Rubin and heading home to change. I was just wondering if you needed anything.” 

“Needed anything?” Pansy asked, incredulous. “Draco Malfoy, making himself useful for once! A sight to see!” 

“Technically, you can’t see me.” 

“Oh, bugger off.” Pansy huffed. “Now that you’ve offered yourself up, though, as my personal errand boy —” 

“I find myself regretting the niceties.” Draco chuckled, pausing at the street corner and awaiting direction. 

“If you could pick up some dessert, that would be great. I don’t think Ginny or I have the patience after all this cooking to attempt to bake.” 

“Fair enough,” Draco said, mentally cataloguing a few bakeries in Diagon Alley. Odessa’s would probably be closed at this hour. “Anything you’d like in particular?” 

“Surprise us, why don’t you,” Pansy said, before kissing the phone with a loud smacking noise and hanging up. 

It was definitely too late to pick up something from Diagon Alley. Wizarding London was far too different from its Muggle counterpart and tended to shut down early on Friday evenings. 

But Draco knew his walk home and was confident there would be something along the way. 

When Draco had moved to Bloomsbury, he was afraid it was going to be too quiet. Something like the life he’d lived in his lonely cottage with Harry, tending to a garden he hardly cared for and surrounded by so much extra life in his plants that it blinded him from his own. 

Bloomsbury, though, despite its beautiful parks and various quiet homes, was a bustling hub of familiar buildings and exciting people.

The literary district was home to a surprising number of witches and wizards that lived amongst Muggles. A few restaurants and shops were disillusioned between buildings or in back alleys, but for the most part, the people of this neighbourhood lived integrally. They shopped for groceries as Muggles would, used cell phones rather than owls because it was inconspicuous, and dated Muggles too. 

Draco hadn’t considered a relationship with anyone since Harry — he would probably never be ready to — but he enjoyed seeing the friendly faces around him fall in love. His neighbours were all kinds of families that he would’ve hated during the war for no real reason at all. Now they were some of his most interesting and intelligent acquaintances. 

Draco was proud of the way he had grown. 

Up ahead, a swirl of leaves lifted from the ground like a miniature tornado rising and falling in tandem with the wind. Draco passed the British Museum, taking in its regal columns and angular structure that characterised the Greek Revival style. He didn’t mind its facade but wasn’t partial to it. 

Across the street from the museum, Draco spotted a small café. Italian, probably, with a glowing neon sign that flickered on the letter E of OPEN. In the window were homemade cannoli that made his mouth water. 

Cannoli would be an unexpected dessert to bring, and not quite something classically warm and cosy during the winter. But Pansy _did_ say he could choose anything, and the pastries looked too good to be ignored. 

Draco crossed the empty street in a few easy steps and pushed in. The bell announced his arrival from behind him. A portly man behind the counter was scribbling something into a notepad, the pen dwarfed by his large fingers. 

“Evening, sir,” the man said in a warm voice, adjusting an apron around his hips. “How can I help?” 

“I’ll take a dozen of the cannoli in the window,” Draco said, pointing to where the tray sat precariously on the sill. 

“Of course, give me a moment. I’ll fill some fresh ones from the kitchen for you.” 

Draco, offering a smile, nodded his assent, folding his arms over his frame and leaning back against the wall to wait. 

The bell jangled in the doorway, and Draco drew his gaze up. His breath caught in his throat. 

He looked away, face reddening, hoping that his wool coat, which was arguably two sizes too large, was concealing most of his frame. And maybe the knitted cap that Molly had gifted him for Christmas the year before was covering up a shock of platinum blond hair. Really, _any_ identifying feature he could find, he wanted gone. Self-consciously, Draco drew a finger up and tucked a stray strand back into the hat. 

“Oh,” the visitor breathed out, and Draco knew he’d been compromised. 

His stomach twisted and curled unpleasantly at the voice. Everything in his mind was screaming at him to flee, but he held his ground, digging his winter boots further into the bakery’s tiled floors. 

“Hi,” Draco said, in the most even voice he could muster. He moved his eyes upward, following dragonhide work boots, dark trousers, and red robes up to an unnervingly familiar face. 

Harry looked down, something like relief and terror and sadness intermingling in his face. 

There was a moment of silence. 

“Hi,” Draco said again, stupidly. He glanced at the doorway in the back where the baker had disappeared. He prayed the man would come back soon; fresh cannoli be damned. 

“Hi,” Harry repeated, but he kept his distance, for which Draco was grateful. “It’s been so long.” 

“Years, yeah?” Draco said, dazed. 

“Five,” Harry answered too quickly, playing with something on his finger. 

Draco’s heart clenched when he realised the silver band was their wedding ring. Old habits die hard. 

“How have you been?” Harry asked when Draco refused a reply. 

“I’ve been well,” Draco said, pausing to adjust his weight. “How about you?” 

“I’ve been okay,” Harry said with a small smile, and Draco’s heart squeezed in his chest. 

Because even after everything, all the pain and terror he’d lived through, it had always been Harry. It always _would_ be Harry. 

Draco smiled back, a small upturn of his lips that, to anyone else, would have seemed unfriendly. Harry would know that there was more to it. 

Forgiveness, perhaps. 

“You look well,” Harry said, surveying him. There wasn’t any malice or possessiveness behind the tone like there used to be. But five years was a long time; even Draco knew that. 

He believed that people changed. After all, it was exactly what he had done. 

“I am well,” Draco murmured. “What are you doing here?” 

“Just getting some tea,” Harry said, and the moment the words left his lips, they both winced. 

Everything was still there. Fresh and raw between them like it had just happened yesterday. 

Before Draco could respond, the baker returned with a paper box that he slid across the countertop. 

The man tapped away at a few buttons on the register before returning a total in the glowing green light of the front screen. Draco fished a few Muggle bills out of his pocket. A hand on his shoulder startled him. 

Harry’s touch against his arm felt like the sharpest sensation in the world. 

Draco resisted the urge to lean into it. 

“Please,” Harry said, handing over bills to the baker. The man looked between them suspiciously but accepted the money. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Draco mumbled, finding his voice coming out quieter than he had intended. 

“Draco.” Harry laughed weakly. “This is quite literally the least I can do.”

Draco closed his eyes, consciously missing the way Harry said his name. Like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“You’re all set,” the baker interrupted, eyeing the pair of them warily. 

“Um, thank you.” Draco cleared his throat, holding a hand out. 

Harry grasped it, shaking firmly with an odd smile playing upon his features. 

Draco broke away first, tightening his scarf around his neck with one hand and balancing the box in the other. He shifted, making toward the door as he heard Harry begin to order his tea and a pastry to go with it. 

He was only seconds away from making a clean escape when an unidentifiable emotion overwhelmed him. 

Suddenly turning in the doorway, Draco called out. “Harry.” 

Harry turned with surprise, a to-go cup in hand, and a receipt bunched in the other. 

“Take care,” Draco said, with a shocking sincerity in his voice. 

Harry smiled, a genuine thing that lit up his face and the green in his eyes like a lantern. He nodded. 

Draco turned back, hoisting the desserts up on his waist. There was much to do before the dinner party that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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